Smallness of hands

One touch is all and only to brave my blood.
Sweat-palms inward fold, fold again.
Remember how they looked as red cubicles?
Inside me it rainedfor forty days;
the machines malfunctioned.
I'm not extinct yet, am I? Save the last vision
for weak hands of hands that know more
than weakness, to make beg from soot, plants,
knuckle drought, full of dirt and bone.
Look how they shiver, just look.
In feebleness see their name render.

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