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49 Blo odflower Ser mon The wind has windflowers, the sea anemones, death its endless procession of white bouquets. We homeless ones circle a field in the guise of nightshade, absent our own blossoming. We nameless ones drop No petals on the sandstone patio. A turbulent shaft of light strips us down to our essence and beats us raw. What chance did we ever have, Great Ones, to be anything but planted in tilth in the end, and sentenced to calcium? ...


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