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A poem.

They walk into the room

carrying trays of fresh fruit

flown in last night from New
Zealand or Peru,

Panama or the Windward Isles.

Kiwis, mangoes, star-apples. 

What about tarantulas among the bananas?

The living leave those alone—

they know how close the shadows are when night falls,

how far their yearning and its intricate

delivery systems spread.

The living set down the trays and arrange

the fruits on the table. Patterns of unmoored stars

rise from the platters. The living

read their futures there, of love

unsprung from the zodiac—that yearning

itself what they yearn for. Sipping champagne

and catching scraps of conversation from other rooms,

they move toward the double doors

and step out into the night breeze on the terrace.

Overhead, a sky reeling with constellations.

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