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31 Pomme I had been trying to get out all day. Death was boiling up in me and I needed to walk into the golding of redbud and burnishing ivy climbing the walls like a long unknotting sigh. He tore into the skin like a wolf. And then no one, hardly anyone, could step away from those hot garnets pinned into flesh. We ate the whole thing standing up. I held my own half like a cup and thumbed open the pale dividing sponge, and I plucked. He sucked the seeds through slick lips, tipped and drank the pool of red. Then the leathered sacks. and brittling pulp. Stained lace, a centerless form calling in low sun and the ongoing landscape of want. ...

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