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He gave me a necklace as a gift.
The book says there are only
ten sentence patterns, but I
see an eleventh sticking out
of my mind. It repeats; I will
always remember it.

He gave me a necklace as a gift.

He is my subject and object
of my affections. I center around
him like a planet around the sun
or does he center around me?

Gave is my verb and a dear
term for charity. My eyes
try to put an R after the G,
making death stalk my gift.

Me is my indirect object but
isn’t so indirect to me. It
shocks me how it floats under
my verb, a dangling person.

A, an article. Immaterial,
or is it? The tongue trips over
itself without this tiny word,
the smallest word, a vital word.

Necklace is my direct object and
it is so strange. Neck, long and
graceful, chopped and bloody. Lace,
fine and wrapped, hardwork and intricate.

As is my expletive and editable
from a sentence. Put it on a dashed
line on a teetering-tottering pedestal.
Is it going to fall?

A, again, pops into play. Do I say
Aye or Ah? What does that choice
say about me? I am pretentious or
I am lazy.

Gift is my object complement, with
an E, not an I. This gift is a compliment
to me. Gifts are always welcome
unless they are grave.

He gave me a necklace as a gift.

And Oh! what a necklace. White
gold chain thinly wraps around
my neck, metal lace. Tiny pendant
dangles above my breast, teetering
between frontside and backside.
Small diamonds surround a blue
sapphire, elegant and delicate. It’s
a treasure revolving around my
neck and floating on my chest.

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