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135 f r o m g o u r d s e e d b u t t e r m i l k These flowers outlast the houses they delight to walk out from in thin spring dresses to where relatives used to live, when they were new lovers, with now cedar trees growing through the bedsprings by the three grey stone steps that lead nowhere. The brain-bulbs twin and quadruple in the translucent ground. And whatever we say or do is a new clove on the cluster we’re with, that helps the cup-shapes come up, that have no use I know of, except to hold your cheek close and let someone see if it reflects, which tells if you love buttermilk or not. Or maybe that was just the ending our family had for the ritual. I have never liked buttermilk, though I’ve not tried it for forty years. I shall taste again, I promise into these frilly, old-fashioned telephones that stand here without their ear-pieces, what my father never understood why nobody else but him enjoyed, the bitter breast, that left a froth of surf-lines in his ordinary glass. ...

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