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If I could endure enough winter
I'd like to bleach to alabaster white,
sleep without clothes
on the floor of St. John's,
wake stained motley by first light
rehearsing infancy against
the blood and indigo let down
from the panes of the great rose window.

I imagine sleep
on the cold lime pavers,
sluiced by other people's dreams —
not St. John's; perhaps some dowager's
some luckless man's
left accidentally when he
came in from the street to warm.

Wouldn't I wake,
wouldn't I stand, one dawn,
a tatterdemalion godless man,
my drapery light,
wandering light,
a flickering candle
fists to sides,
pale beneath it all
as death, and still, with head
thrown back, prepared and
breathing in the one
burning day of beauty,
consumed and adorned.

      — Scott Murphy

Hear Scott Murphy read 'Burn Down Burning Man'