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II. Or, the Confessor Who Greens the Garden

Patricia Lockwood

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Father Fibonacci Is Deafer By the Minute

And longs for the cochlear curls of his youth, which stayed
on the pillow one afternoon, but still he works; hearless,
he kneels in the rows. Above the birds are ribs of umbrellas.
Father Fibonacci grows pink in the sun, says the enemies