sleight_of_hand raze most mornings i remember to stand the glove that guards the hand i don't leave exposed to the elements in front of a small ceramic heater so it might be warm enough when i step outside to kick against the cold for at least a little while and keep the fingers it conceals from feeling the full force of what they're up against. i lean it at the oven's edge with a box_of_fire balanced on an idle burner, and i wait. half the time i'll pluck it from its perch to find i've chosen wrong. chasing the chill away from something i have no need for. defeating the purpose of the entire enterprise. this is the arc of my whole life, reduced to a doomed gesture meant to mollify the most important tool i have. squint and you might see me shivering in the snow, jabbing one half-frozen finger at my own ineptitude. 251207 what's it to you? who go blather from