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To the Quick We fixed the ages of the irises at flower, stopped the eons of the oranges at fruit. Ripe was ready, since we liked to eat, and beautiful was full by virtue of the ear-eye-nose-and-throat man. Time was sometimes said to be at hand. But not for a second did the plant stand still. The space we designated blooming— where did it begin? The beans turned white to green, and green to brown, and then were no less Phaseolus; flesh fell off into enormous gravity, and seeds were an end in themselves, in a way. On top of the TV set I put the baby pictures, meant to keep the little person as he was, as still as he could be. O man, o child, we loved each other less for how we moved than how we stayed. But what did we adore about the river? Its unfixed address, and vagaries of bed. 173 ...

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