It is the same plate
My fork scratched years ago
There is a little bit of me etched in it.
Hidden in the gold-maroon of its border,
Is the ghost of me
For your consumption
I am also hidden somewhere in your thoughts,
In your unconscious responses.
Perhaps, in your enjoyment of glitter.
I am happy with this past.
My wishes are glad.
Piecemeal-me is nourishing:
The spirit is no poltergeist.
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