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PASTORAL Isn’t it terrible the way the wind goes on, a blind, breathing field, traveling over us? And isn’t the constant light of the sun demeaning, the way it burns and burns but is never consumed, while we are matches? O, fiery seraph guarding the darkness alone, turn to me now and tell me that this life isn’t a loosed gyre— that when we were cast out, with the sticky sweet of fruit on our lips, a trail of bronze pulp smeared across our bodies where we had touched each other, open-eyed, shaking beneath palms, and shame, that bright seed of knowledge, grew in us until we knew we were lost—tell me you didn’t mean forever.  ...

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