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Liebestod All morning, the stubborn roses die by frostbite, around them The wind like a woman breathing through a hole open in her throat. Season of trapped rabbits, hogs hung low in the slaughter tree. Season of Hamlet in his skinny tights, blood rankling the brain. Summer’s gone off its medication. You can tell by the way It stumbled through September, looking a little seedy and overripe. In the next cartoon, a small desert island’s stuck on an ice floe, A man stranded in the lone palm throwing coconuts down at a polar bear. No caption required. No words dark enough to make you laugh. O Papa Freud, what do you think now about love and death? I’m for one, against the other. And weren’t the roses, red and yellow, Lovely as these leaves in their slow cold float across the sky? 17 • • • ...

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