Love Poem
John Frederick Nims
My clumsiest dear, whose hands shipwreck vases,
At whose quick touch all glasses chip and ring,
Whose palms are bulls in china, burs in linen,
And have no cunning with any soft thing,
Except all ill-at-ease fidgeting people:
The refugee uncertain at the door,
You make at home: deftly you steady
The drunk clambering on his
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