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Into your crass I came; hungry, not starved.
Cold heat within me was hard proof that you

were the sweetest thing under this roof. Carved
from the same root we are: satyr’s seed, blue

dahlia, maple sweet. It was at the inn
while in your end that our fire without rest

burned with merriment. Praise this sin while in
you. Praise your owl cry for more. Let each blessed

stroke cut us off from all other teenage
wastelands, beloved. Storm lights in our window,

burdens left by war gods, your breast cancer
— none of it matters. We let love rampage

in us. We praise the freak, love’s wild weirdo,
death’s new year — we’re ripe with hints of slaughter.