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61 View When last I took you to the theater, the dogs were fetching balls in propaganda films. It was springtime and German Shepherds loped past with their ears weighed down by ticks. On our tour through the Pyrenees, a young ram staggered past with an echo in its ears (it had won no ewes to hear us) and only in its double vision was what we once felt restored. On whichever pages I put milkweed leaves I found the never-caving chambers of a heart. I pressed a corsage here, which made these words appear, as stitching in a paper pattern dress; but it took a thousand years, for the stalactite to lower one stitch, into the burial shroud; and leave its tip, where his thought had been, to rise, eventually, into the world again; you and I were standing on the ground above it, administering thought to the body, as if, at this moment, the world had not grown from this head, and we could do as we pleased; the birds were using piercing songs, and had not waited quite as long, to exist nor visited upon his head, such violence; and while others stood beside us above stalactites pressing into nothingness, you and I must have guessed how long the rain would leach the ground of minerals, and force this idea upon him. ...

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