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Her sudden, silent prayer was commonplace:
to betray but do no harm, to admix guilt with love
and that way get the best of it, to let each salty lie
roll on her tongue, to gamble with heartbreak, to give
an account of herself that would seem most like herself.

 

There’s a shadow in from under the door. Can you see it yet:
shadow of slow-onset, contagion’s mission-creep.
So, yes ... voices held to a monotone, the painting, the clock,
hanging clothes, aerials and ridge-tiles, cirrus, cirrus ...

 

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