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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=575496" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Bleak Hand</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=575496" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">My father’s bleak hand was ravenous for the glory of blood.<br>He placed it under his sheets to warm it for action—<br>What did he do with it once it had reached its<br>operating temperature? </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=575496" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Well, you know, he placed it in his vest<br>An arch Napoleon—except more mediocre—<br>Seeking out his sons, the blind little piglets<br>Spawned by December’s grease and broken fenceposts</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=575496" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Beat down on the magic, the magic of youth—<br>One bleak hand with a quota to fill.<br>The bleakest hand you ever knew, <br>Marching its shadow across the tobacco fields.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Harold+Standish">Harold Standish</a></strong></div>

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