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76 dead metaphOr: the rOse How the room centers around a vase centered on a table, narcotic loosening of petals. My god, how quickly today passes, beginning containing unfolded finish, first beauty the solution to our pain, whether wild thorn of woodside or tended garden monarch—still dangerous in her refinements—cut in the budding. One petal, then another, silken flag, proffered kerchief, dropped from soft knot, lifted by hand and discarded upon dappled stream of the mind, spun and parted. Finis. For if that, faded lover, is the sort of nonsense you incline to, please allow this simple test: Lower your blushed face into what remains of the flower’s invitation, press nose and lips to fragrant death. Inhale. By any symbol, it smells as sweet. ...

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