FOREIGN SHADES
diaphanous elbows beneath my garden, a shallow grave of epithets, coiled like a holiday snake. Repenting of your virtue too late for seeing, too soon for death, but not my own; a chastisement of angels, hurtling from below, not one half so careless as a filtered, cold reply laid or tossed repentantly beneath the cherry table. Said it? you said it, the windows pealed antiphony like frozen cakes of mud, blue-nosed to the ears, and groomed as close as houses
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