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Fix i. I needle April into letting go: out of a white all winter we mistook for poverty, the world turns suddenly indulgent, dealing pinwheels and color wheels, springing songbirds down buttered wires, waxing the lips of women red, unrumpling all the hearth-devoted dogs. The senses split their pods—switchblades hatch in the hands of the nouveaux riches. The eye gets flashy with a superficial wit and jets flock to the big blue bedroom, trailing their ribbons of emission. Green has made its inroads in your eyes: you envy all of nature. But I unzip your outerskin, and basketsful of pink and white carnations flower forth. My hands are full of health, they tremble on the verge of your having, the one hooked eye to go, one undone rainbow, prism of liquid, lip of spill— II. Far and away the strictest sun is stationed overhead, its lashes keep an eye on us. We don't look up from loving. Therefore he, hell-bent on pleasure, readies himself to come. He straps the fashionable in parachute upon his borrowed frame, and hums a human tune. We hear him approach and then we hear him hover there, for what seems hours, in the season's wings, the near obscene old god, revving and revving his devil-may-care machine. 112 ...

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