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43 The Selkie from Shore You will tell me what I long for is God. But I say it is bees, their pulse and tremble in flowers slackening toward summer’s end, daylilies spreading rust under dusky oaks. I say I want a garden for them, so what is small might return and be sufficient again. Not God, or sky streaming light, cathedrals, a wish I am not big enough to hold—not those but the slightest tremor of air, and a humming that has no need of me. ...

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