Tuesday, April 19, 2005


. . . gobbling the whole, sharpening the flashing iron.

And the helmets are shaking their purple-dyed crests, and for the wearers of breast-plates the weavers are striking up the wise shuttle's songs, that wakes up those who are asleep.

And he is gluing together the chariot's rail.

Upstairs the children are watching Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends, wrapped in their duvets, mint-green dressing gowns. This is Thebes, war has just been declared. We're talking about the oil-drips in the parking space. I'm excited, I think a white sail is twinkling over in the rail sidings, it approaches very fast, or is it a black sail?


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