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82 Aubergines You came to my office and left two aubergines on the corner of my desk not big, heavy in my hand dense in their thick purplish skin strange and serene against the white leanness of the room, squarish books angular and sullen, shelves linear and orderly. I polished them on my sleeve, each crowned with a crescent light orb at their rotund top full and plump, cool bronze of a Venus’ breast out of the sea. Back to my office, I found them paired in recline, blue-black, cyan deepening ink color of the night a green, starry cusp at the bottom with prickly stems that held them over ground. In the kitchen, I cut them no nostalgia for their beauty color deep of sleep embracing dream, spongy and bouncy against the serrated blade knife slicing their saffron flesh. ...

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