Abstract

I dropped the words into the air, heavy and dark. I arranged the names so that her friends could taste the suggestion of more than those round green and purple fruits. She wanted that particular season on their tongues, a certain history of soil and gardeners carrying roots wrapped in cotton handkerchiefs from Genoa and Malaga. (I am inventing this part; what I wanted, then, was a kind of instant pleasure of distinctions tasted only in language.)

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