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Poem	When the chilled dough of his flesh went in an oven not unlike those he fuelled all his life, I thought of his cataracts ablaze with Heaven and radiant with the sight of his dead wife, light streaming from his mouth to shape her name, 'not Florence and not Flo but always Florrie.' I thought how his cold tongue burst into flame but only literally, which makes me sorry, sorry for his sake there's no Heaven to reach. I get it all from Earth my daily bread but he hungered for release from mortal speech that kept him down, the tongue that weighed like lead.
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