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Lilies opened, as always, at his knees. No one else
could see them there, he knew, and that was fine—
this myth was his: A pool of orange.
No magic spells, no prophets. Nothing
but the present moment. For him
it had powdered eyes.
Life is so strange, he said to them,
and as they tilted back to speak,
pollen dropped into its cups.
He heard them then in their reply:
Strange compared to what?
—adapted from Justin Rigamonti
