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82 ab ovo So this is love, more or less: Sucking the sleepbreath from her kiss Before the pillows cool; letting the infant Shake its first fist at the shadows Bent over it; not looking down The deep sleeve of God to see What dove he’s conjured up this time, Its neck knotted in a noose of blood. And if less, if the folktales tell us With their griefs and felonies, their jinxs and hints, That wise virgins must choose between being Virgin or wise, that the hero’s heart must Push its pluck against a life both Lucky and unjust—well, what spell would Slow the breakage from egg to grave, If not love, whatever name it came to: Third wish of the third son, Or curse, or quirk, or clamor in the bone. ...

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