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Crop Cults Recycling, grocery virtue, hopeless votes: these rituals are how we’d save the world— not sex in wormy furrows to fertilize some oats, not crucifying scarecrow hotties, once they’ve mated with the May Queen. We contend our lives are more than leaves or lentils. That sweet dunce, the body, understanding none of this, still aches to blossom with the blossoming of everything that dies. It never heard the lies our egos eat. It doesn’t care for truth. My body thinks of yours the way a tongue continually roves half of a broken tooth it must soon lose. And it already knows the sharp gap that the dentistry will leave. Despite a winter of Platonic oaths, you kissed me at the vernal equinox and that was great but the coincidence can’t handcuff us to the grandfather clocks 25 HadawayRevisedPages 8/15/06 3:09 PM Page 25 of history and biology. Around the funeral of the Loaf-King at Lammastide, I’m bound away to study supernatural mechanics, make up spells too weird to die. And so are you. No gods of husk and hull can gobble down what we’ve already learned or all the ways our tongues and fingers burned. 26 HadawayRevisedPages 8/15/06 3:09 PM Page 26 ...

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