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55 Over wildernesses of cold By the sun’s fireplace to sit And feel frozen blood melt down in porous veins THE HAND Upon the shrine of Heaven Barefoot I stand Holding out in offering, this page; My penned gratitude For those shrouded truths Vouchsafed me in a flash Of lightening more lasting Than a leap year, The eyes that looked with pity upon me; my tribulations And the hand that – with a duster – Did wipe off my soul The darkness thereon scribbled in charcoal gloom; The hand that buoyed me up In the tenebrous tides of furious seas, Tossing me ashore all the way And the hand that moved home My stranded feet – me, this quisling of a runaway calibre – Guiding down the snowy road Their faltering steps. The hand that rescued – From the cold wilderness of strange-looking Februarys – This greed-tossed And once marooned soul ...

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