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I Envy Her Hands

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Things are precise.
Things are exact.
Things are definite.

From the direction she walks
to the words she chooses to write.

If she is going in the wrong direction
she turns around.

If she doesn't like the words she wrote,
she erases them and writes new ones.

I envy her stability.

I envy her security.

I envy her hands,
whose grip around the neck of life

is so much tighter than mine.



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