A GLOVE I look down and my hand is blue Stained by anticipation Raw as the morning dew The tips of my fingers are seething and cold Reaching out, frigid, to stand still As honest as silver, piercing as gold Thumbs are flat and callous Muttering that they are worn in Familiar as carriages but wrinkled by malice My veins are hidden but pulsate near the bones Hidden beneath stale skin and scales Covering icicles as cold as stones Written in 2003. Poetry