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83 Baskets of Potatoes wore mourning gowns, tripped over raw fruit, peaches, plums i could not eat. hunger stole taste of bread. of wine. outside birds, violets consumed merciful dark sat in cellars with baskets of potatoes stubbled with age, scraped their peel against dank dirt until babies appeared in moonlight, dazed. slept, ate skin, drank barley with mint. silence swaddled. first crone came quietly, pulled edges of sun off windows, wove cocoons, insisted we crochet, twist rosemary, birdnest into ropes of light we flung against the past. found they held. climbed. ...

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