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It wasn’t a standard fifth date, but

we drove


out there to bury my dog,

not his body per se,

but the fanny packs of his grief.

The aura photographer said you

and I had a mutual blue that


incited hot orange adventure.

I sang a new smile under the alders while

you kissed everything. We slept free


on beargrass mats in claw caves.

Seven years later when you cheated,

it was on a new futon. We’d been to Tokyo

and were fancier. All I could think of was red dust.

You’d really wiped your hands on me in Sedona.

Posted 07/04/17
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