or that’s what it says right
here on the last page of
writing in this undated
notebook. Clearly it’s
my writing. And it can’t
have been forever ago.
And furthermore,
that would, you’d
think, be quite the
memorable title for
a poem. What follows—
the supposed body of
the piece called “Un-
buttoned Triceratops”
—is pretty good, too.
Simply:
Scratching two items off the list, I
lift my arms.
Well, if I did eventually
type it up to include in
here, I could fairly eas-
ily find it behind this
page somewhere, un-
der whatever roman
numeral. But I cert-
ainly don’t remember
it. Which is too bad,
too. Because this
spoils everything.
