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Red Tin


Inside I imagine puckered cups of
butter cookies, paper that releases
a sigh. But instead there may be
fiction, wishes never reciprocated.
Playbill of redundant arguments.
One black glove, unlost,
fraying.

What vestibule on an emptied
table, solo temptation labeled
with another’s name. Guarded.
Eventually recycled. Initials carved
in melting snow. A tool unsuited to
the task of prying open. Without
valentine.

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