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47 Sub Rosa At the end of the book of heaven, that black hole to which all light aspires and escapes, a white rose closes over the Virgin and the Florentine and other emigrants from earth, odor so sweet it purges and embalms, a swoon of virtue in a pure retreat. At bone level, below the rose, it’s nothing more than more of nothing: an owl looks down, yellow beacon of its eyes tracking the little sacs of fur and fear that pant through a plunge of moonlight to dim woods, sanctum where some shadow lies, licking the bloodstink from its claws. ...

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