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I have known hands all my life. It is my bread to tint an ageing palm That scants its tip for rosaline And the careful removal of dry flesh. Butter for my bread I buy from fingers that make light with mine And slide a dollar in between to make it right. Hands are mostly all alike Thinking through their fingertips Of bargaining and lust. But his are different, Lean and unconcerned with me, Even when lying idle in soapy water. Just to feel his fingers for five minutes I'd perfume them, without money, To philander at another breast than mine. But some day— Before I'm faded with the wanting— I shall do his nails in the farther room And take the pay for waiting There. Little enough it will be But long cherishing quick spent.