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79 The Herbalist Next life, I’ll devote to the earnest pursuit of languor. A dubious sort, I’ll live like a Buddha, impervious, fat. What a relief to flout unknowable accounts— let the earth offer up its sober charities if it wants. Moses strikes the rock and brings forth the bubbling stream. We get to swim in it, lie down in it, do what we want. Want. The thing unfurls like tight-packed knots of fiddlehead fern, mandrakes, gentian, garden spurge, opening large upon themselves, stopless, filling the sky. Let whatever we find turn to seeds, jackbeans, stalks uplifted, rattle like brittlebush in a dry wind while years lock into years, and contentment fills the mouth. ...

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