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My letters stiffen here, I
sit upon their frozen hinges,
scream across slippery sleep
where it stands over them.

I have let them live away
to love false and unmake
merry children, dear muse,
where unthreaded breath
cannot draw them up.

Prose is no friend to me,
for its fleeting victory I run
in its maze- it opens in me
straight rows of scars.