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I have seen a woman transform into a garden and a garden become increasingly more of a woman. I have heard the soft language of figs into which her teeth have left marks. I have seen the borders repealed, that which previously was a face exposed is now a bowl of terracotta. Birch-leaves are blown into the mouth and scrape against the sermon. I know that when I dip my writing hand in the green sorrow it will be cooled. Hanging from the breathing of the trees the words become coated with verdigris.
