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Then there was beauty in what clung, vertical and multiple against a damp tombstone where no one goes, or has gone forever, the stone carved in another language and the weed-life overgrown. We knew they must know movement, but they would not move while being what they meant to us. Where the headstone's windowpane meant to protect the crucifix and photograph was cracked apart, we saw how on its inward, wetter side, the infant shells began self-generation in a line like vowels strung inside a child's understanding: this belongs to this. O perfect succulence with which interiors adhere to forms, O open mouths. Should we have found the world more often clinging to words describing it? What would have been the afterlife of that?