Harold Standish

Rookie (1919-1972 / Toronto)

The Bleak Hand

My father’s bleak hand was ravenous for the glory of blood.
He placed it under his sheets to warm it for action—
What did he do with it once it had reached its
operating temperature?

Well, you know, he placed it in his vest
An arch Napoleon—except more mediocre—
Seeking out his sons, the blind little piglets
Spawned by December’s grease and broken fenceposts

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