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50 Iris Dead, though I pick them anyway, because they are mine. Because their time is over I let nothing grow, listen to the ghosts of them, each with her message from Lethe. Each limp stem in a bed of broken necks a fallen bird. We’ve all mistaken windowed sky for heaven;—it is always spring. Stem. Leaf. Blossom. All of it sponged from the air. ...

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