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Autopsy of a Romance

By , Brooklyn, NY
The night when I first lived
alone, the forest appeared
as a piece of gray paper
torn away from the painting
it was meant to cover.

I sought nothing more
than the common quadruplicity of limbs.

And he said, “Do you know
what a bruise means?”
and I said, “Yes.” And he said,
“It means there is pain,
even after a long

time.” Echoes of fingersteps
linger on the legs.

This is the wound
yearning for its perpetrator.





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