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44 Poem (It’s already the end of the month and I haven’t finished the essay on Larry Levis.) My love affair with lilacs uses up one more day at the desk. A bush. The sprouting unerringly. The dead face in the coffin (his? or that gray-beard’s?) not more elegant than my own. Don’t you feel them, all the ghostly undulations here? More lilacs would purify this room. Unhaunt it. Eros could slip out on Psyche, leaving her satin flanks still damp. Her sex still edgy from its procreant engorgement. The problem is that ghosts don’t palpitate. They linger in our caves; they lick my ears. We go without a trace, is what he keeps on trying to say to me. ...

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