To choose a pair of gloves
Is serious business.
I place your brown leather small
On top of mine
It is as if you are protecting me
A tender shelter for my hands
Made of florentine winters
cobblestones, morning trains, domes.
It runs a bit short
A black cashmere wrap, or
the vulnerable clinging of the young.
The gloves are empty
Your hands are not there
Your gloves are shells
Echoing your touch
Your gloves are naked
They are the skin you use to protect your skin
I carry them now
I carry you
Then I place mine on top
Brown like yours, but bigger
Your gloves poke from under , happy.
Mother and child of the same tan.
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Great post thanks. I really enjoyed it very much. You have a great blog here. Thanks again for sharing.
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accidenti… bellissima!
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