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The Return It was the way dreams end: in mourning for that one touch from the beyond that makes us human. I could
have sworn it changed forever the way a crocus blooms, what a sparrow sings, the way a jade talisman
transliterates the moon, that white fish caught on the spear of trees that were our own wishes reaching toward names for imageless desire— the way it was before snow fell on Eden. I am no longer sure of stepping back into immortality where dawn can slam shut the starry doors of God and white feet stumble again through streets of black tar with vacant lots and crevices for the improbable flower.
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