The idea was: if you had 
more than one of anything, 
you didn't need more. How 
many hooped, trembly earrings; 
how many necklaces, embroidered 
scarves or woollen shawls? But 
they accumulate with the years:
as gifts, or souvenirs you
pick with your own hand,
giving in to the sting
of a passing desire. 
The bone on the side 
of your right big toe
juts out at an angle, 
always chafing against 
the leather of a shoe. 
But this too, you find
alluring: that one 
of every pair has 
the same small, polished 
dome as if to say this 
is the way it knows you. 


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