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ORIGINAL ERRATA He thought He had made himself perfectly clear: Let there be lust. But where there’s a will, there’s a way to misunderstand, to make tragic puzzles of shame and fruit from lovely ambiguities He had always felt. No wonder He receded farther than the stars, farther than the white room of Emily Dickinson. He’d had such hopes for the garden: a slow eureka of tongues in understated moonlight, rosy virtuosities at dawn, even the pink loneliness at noon the right hand heals. Thus, He greeted the first tenants of the flesh, then paused beside the pear. He wanted to confide a brazen sweetness— the short, slippery slope He had made for them into love.  ...

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