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Hands wore honey etched gold
to the smooth dulling of brass,
almost leaden,  pebble-felt,
to be juggled in pocket
with more useful things.

Yet, it winds up, working
in a broken-beat fashion,
ticking a bittering sweetness
farther into the tarnishing fog
of a beautiful thing.

The companion piece softly lain
in a less than silken drawer
muffles imaginary time
past the event horizon.

Hands enwinding hands,
crystals swept together,
synchronized momentously
as undergearings whirred
to paths with broken chains.

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