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[26] ANNIVERSARY I too was bent on it, eager to jump out of the pockmarked skillet and into the heated cauldron of marriage—Hurry, hurry, said the wind, all the while boring escape hatches in the tall reeds. Hurry said the lilac, and the jeweled hummingbird that revved the throttle on its small engine. Oh, I let them sing their songs of scorching and I rushed to drink the wine. And oh, my fingers bled from threading silk into the needle, from slipping on my rings of twine. The dish of nectar tilts from the brittle branches, and the weeds remain the feathery vagabonds they are . . . Now I try to learn the gold-slow rhythms of afternoons, the thrift of hours from the longer bones of time. ...

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