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--- D A V I D   F L O Y D   A N D   A B R A H A M   S M I T H

The string cheese thrust, the junked-out sparrow bastardizing dusk, but he was in West Palm Beach, palm trees at the end of his mind. Half-barrel shingles on the roofs split the forkbuck he had in his head in half. He discovered three crows are better than one if the one was truly a magpie hopping on a tin roof, if the roof could morph into a rotgut Chevy, then he could have rightly reached and touched her veins. Knockwurst. Bratwurst. But worst of all, the yellow flowers in the kitchen vase bloomed blue. He thought he’d just cut the flowers, just cut the flowers, just cut the flowers. He learned about love under HWY 70’s bridge, on the soft dirt, the graffitied green supports were his best go at not thinking of sex 24-7—till he discovered the need for the round-trip home. Midwest bound and bruised he bought a bag of off-brand cigarettes in East Des Moines. He stubbed his pride in O’Fallon, in Ladysmith. Undone and done.

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