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40 The Divine Then I warmed the cups and pot, scalded one teaspoon for you, one for me, one for the pot, as if it too remembered, perfumed in Bergamot. Now after showers, steam rises from your shoulders. Knots of leaves scar the teapot bottom in which to see the future: thin, dissipating heat in cups, the thinness of your hands— one cradled, the other fingering the rim’s rise, as I’ve seen saints in paintings, and archeologists on TV, palm a skull and trace the scorched orbitals where the world enters, where it leads. ...

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