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--- D A V I D   F L O Y D

--after Karen Cassandra Burk's "To The Man That Doesn't Exist"

You are alone at the Hollywood Diner in Delaware on X-mas--no snow, only the memory of white like an echo

trying to repeat itself. I'm trying to wish myself there next to coffee and paper placemats, not knowing the difference between wanting and needing, thinking I might be served up with the food of heartburn and soiled spoons. You are writing me on two-bit napkins.

If this were happening, I'd steal a skull and crossbones ring-you could wear it around your neck on weathered lace. I'd engrave your name in my arm with a rusty blade, carve verse on a box elder, initial it with X. If this were happening, I'd want words to ebb from my tongue like bubbles of rain from a catalpa leaf; I'd want my words to be like twigs that take root and sleep in dark soil-- awaken as branches for sky--

with earth still clinging to their uprising.

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