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what's left is still made of gold

the men who have held my heart

often forgot to wash their hands

letting specks of dirt and dust

stick to the outer side of my ventricles

oxidized blood loses its shine

when it carries too many foreign particles

he puts on gloves and a surgical mask

then pokes and prods with expert care

asking, "what does this part do?"

and listening when I answer

his thumb traces my aorta and taps

the syncopation of his own heartbeat

in time with mine

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