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A Little Closer to the Edge

Young enough to believe nothing

will change them, they step, hand-in-hand,


into the bomb crater. The night full

of black teeth. His faux Rolex, weeks


from shattering against her cheek, now dims

like a miniature moon behind her hair.


In this version the snake is headless — stilled

like a cord unraveled from the lovers’ ankles.


He lifts her white cotton skirt, revealing

another hour. His hand. His hands.

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