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  • The flowers are dying on the doorstep. They are bending over their summer pots like the dancers who stretch behind the stage. But the muscle and bone in their stem-like legs, it is gone. And the blood that rushed from toe to thigh, from sepal to style, from my fingertips to yours — it is gone. And our heads are knocking against the stoop. We are bruised bulbs, so fragile and soft and torn.

    Our love, it is dying on this doorstep, and every time I go up and go down, up and down, up, down, I hear the flowers wailing.
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