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29 Eurydice Again, I have to tell our story. I’ve been among the roots and there’s a warmth in the world people have forgotten. Inside the kettling bed and rotting of everything that lives, it’s hot as my body. Oh, I know how you looked for me on streets, in the silhouettes of leaves, how you lived on like a man with your work and work in the bonecold you call dread. But we both had known you once as me, and God, were you heroic in your need, coming back like that. Then we set off toward what you’d known and it snapped— what had I— without you— that fast flash of cheek and what did you see? Gleam of my shoulder or knee? 30 Anyway. They were live things coursing with light. It happened so fast: me, made a part in a gesture you’d call your own. ...

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