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Molting

Easter weekend and I wake up beside not‐you.
No one knows how to dress for such weather.
Yesterday, I tried wool. Today, a parka.
Nothing warms my body.
I pray rebirth,
but mean second chance.
Every autumn a reinvention—
the allure of the semester system.
But it’s April and August’s fresh city
is all promise. This one’s still filled
with the places we didn’t go.    

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   Contributor’s notes

   Honey,
   Molting
   Without Like or As

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