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16 Bleeding Heart In that house there was a portal under the porch that opened onto parched earth glinting with glass and old nails. I kept the red wheelbarrow there and once bringing it out saw what must have been all summer developing: a three-foot stalk, lace-leafed, fonting tongues and pearls— and all of it pale as cartilage or bonewater. Somehow it had grown only on air and inner fire into a colorless double of its other, pink and dripping in the border bed. Its feminine shape burned my mind. All that white! I wish I had stood there and seen. But revulsion seized me and I pulled it out. It collapsed as a stopped faucet and dropped a smarting spine in the red bin, then I covered it. ...

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