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95 A Morning at Adrift I can’t put “toothbrushes” into a poem, I really can’t . . . —Sylvia Plath In the cafe, a woman takes pictures of her orange juice, while I try to find a good way to force toothbrushes into a poem. Suddenly it’s done so I go back to my beans, watching the lady switching lenses and switching angles, without having even sipped from her muse whereas I brushed soon as I showered. I could never ask the woman why she wastes her juice’s sweetness on photography, or why it seems half my writing gets set at breakfast. She would probably think it strange to put so many things of zero consequence into clumsy verse with no rhyme when rain is going on outside, and gulls. ...

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