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Right hand, cut from rough sand

stone, enfolding line within

line. Bright of the dark

blood sings in the palm

sculpts rock to


But not a hand the sun shines

through. It harbours light.

The maker’s palms are cut

by waves, his fingers

blocked in black


Fierce hands, his hands are steel

Both right and left. An instant

they rest on the frame’s edge.

The circle is done. Dry

blood can’t hold bright.

Tippling from outstretched palms

into the mothering open. Time’s

dark block wont tarnish

coarsen or flake: frail

hands hard with light.

Two diamonds.

Meena Alexander
November 1974

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