By Donald Britton
for David Cobb Craig
At first, we had ways of talking
That filled up the evening
Until some things could be said. It was a made-up
Situation in which lives could be lost.
Whatever that was now grows inside
Our bodies—a spongy, pulpy cell—
Causing pieces of paper we hold
In our hands to appear
And disappear. All I ask
Is to take me away from this place,
To another place, very much like
This place, where we can meet
And six months later
Be married. You laughed and went with me.
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