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Purple flower with thin petals,
four pistils at the center,
motherly yellow circle.
Nucleus of annals,
nucleus of hope,
the right weight.

Four creatures, snatching a skirt of flaring yellow. Four with destinies, with their own maps, their particular lovelinesses and dues. For an instant, their eyes turn to the blue sky, to the girdling whiteness, the glory, and then they fall onto the river, nearly black. "He had lost so much blood at the time of the autopsy that his heart was dry." Like an apricot, the kind you eat in winter celebrating The Good News. Gloria in excelsis Deo.