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22 THE BODY IN ITS FINAL COMMERCE Hoarder, I take what grieves me from others, declare it my own— (your addiction, your black heroin, your death) for I loved not to suffer such things as I loved to look upon— (your charred-rose-of-a-name) Whatsoever sorrow is enough I bring to my mouth— (your veinfire, your burned-down bloom, your clear and never again) though feigned and counterfeited— And unsavory. Because. ...

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