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    Unbearable months night heavens tick in the strange hall
    of the cold house she sat for; still, sprawled tangle. . .

    "last thing to fetch, so stupid of me, my reading-glasses", fell
    on her brittle (Canon Ickter's article) stair-bruised thin ankle.

*

    Street nave sun; they cried, barged-budged, worked
    accessories of the love-line; bent elbow; stick

    it between me and what I'm looking at; put out
    streaming with active bible, read and click.