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3 April April takes down my love— wrong season for dying. Even the box elder, hunching into the clouds, is blooming, branching, leaving. She’s leaving, half-aware in the tilted bed, breath barely coming, then not. Jaws clamped around a scrap of tongue. Her warm body gone cooler, cold. Hospice to wash her. Two mortuary men. What had been touch and talk, ripe fruit, red wine: a stalk in a winter field. ...

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