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Making Certain Hands all scraped with rake and raw of old new flesh, you always push to push when pull has passed and work like any blue neck pays you back in bone. When food all fresh with spoil spills of blood because blood dips you back in fat. Has some thing down with oil. Knuckles wrack skin with age of work with work. Something inside flesh. It makes us put our lives together. Flat hard hands of soiled hearts ungive up because a top line has no bottom. Makes us women before our men appear. Make certain, yes, quite certain, bone spites nothing in trust of something. Poetry by Doug Paugh Binghamton, NY ~DoNotUsePlz (https://www.deviantart.com/donotuseplz):iconmyartplz: