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Lost love is a triceratops, old man
a tyrannosaur, this morning
in June I wake to find myself awake,
open-eyed to the waning gibbous
of my past lives. The rubber
I remember my friend from the U.K.
saying meant condom to me
implied pencils. Erasure. The smudge
of what was, the newly incised
afterwards, a thrashing in the dark leaves
of our arboreal world. Removal
of the old cells, the moldy loaf of bread,
followed by a full moon, maybe
even a honeymoon.
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