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52 bluet Inevitable, the body of the world weeps in inventive dust for the hiatus that winks above it, bluet in your breasts. —Hart Crane, “For the Marriage of Faustus and Helen” Since the hiatus between all the searching opens wherever I want it to go, and since I am made of a body that ages already wept for, and already gave up for you, listen, and just once please fall down to my hands; let this weeping be all: Lost​with​your​body​in​fog​once,​we​counted beating​cascades​all​the​way​up​to​clouds, then​looked​up​slowly​and​found​that​before​us hung​one​blue​flower.​We​spoke​it​aloud: “Bluet.”​We​spoke​it,​knowing​it​would​last as​long​as​the​blue​in​the​reckoning​sky arching​down​to​us.​Then​we​saw​the​petals pull​from​their​center​and​not​one​would​stay (Yes,​I​am​listening,​answered​the​bluet; that’s​what​I​wanted,​and​now​I​will​fall.) Hoping​for​you​now,​we​cry​in​our​bright glittered​hexagonals,​swept​by​the​sound of​lost-​ ashore​music​with​rain​falling​down, our​tears​building​dust​into​patterns​that​carve trails​to​the​solace,​the​stars​of​your​breasts (Dust​is​always​the​language​we​use.) ...

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