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Show XVII Across the room your hand corrects the u n r e l i a b l e l i n e s , and then out loud, "On the blanket where h i s wife de-caffinates his l i f e , " and laugh. Then sad. Blue hard on you, your face q u a i l s implausibly, then not, as i f unaccustomed to t h i s ruse, t h i s day's gentle d e r a i l i n g. The sun-sketch, p l a i n t i v e , on the rug; records repeat themselves, rub-off- you are a p a t i e n t woman s t i l l . What else can we do, disarrange, jade the down world, parry, a l l the r e s t. The day3 i n s t r u c t us, and we never say. XVIII The bare floor pivots the arcing sun. Remote, the days are passing one-by- one the landscape, uninspired. 1 am a celebrant of these, which.,.seeing.,.are a pain. I can't make heads or tails of most beauty, or virtue either...I confess unnerves me toward some gradual loss: your perfect candor slipping off a dress, or from a bath, all rose for what you are, sudden in light. For those that have not heard: in vain I hold you to a thumb, and stroke. I would have you twice as drawn. |