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The Hand of Glory

 


The Hand of Glory

- Bob Beagrie (U.K.)

 

It’s a scorcher

in mid-September


seven berries dangle

from every branch


blood stains for the end

of a sacrificial summer


but the 5 o clock shadows

betray the season


the way they sprawl

too early, too tar-black


across sun-paled roads

the way they pool


in potholes and pockmarks

race harvested stubble fields


skritty-scratty like Fred

Flintstones’ chinny-chin-chin


It’s all Sex on the Beach

It’s all Slippery Nipples


It’s too bright, too dried

and crisp to go tee-total, or


keep your eyes from squinting

the lids drooping like berries,


lashes locking to stop

your darkness


from leaking out, to resist

sipping from the spring


of slumber and sink into

its pool and while


you wallow some scally

equipped with a hanged man's


severed hand plucks the giddy-

golden leaves as if they

were Doubloons, sovereigns

Threepenny bits, hearts


and other nostalgia-riddled

tokens gone by the bye.