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Reece Merrifield

Give me a drink and I’ll
contradict myself with a speech
soaked in loosely tied thoughts
that wrings my memory dry

when tightened in the morning
no matter how many plasters
I drink or wash myself with
I won’t know what you’ll be

painting in your weekly art class
half abandoned when you flee from
peering students who ruminate
on your work of crumbling columns,

half-bodies in peculiar angles
and an empty bucket, on its side, in the sand.