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Step into a flat space or a thin gown. Chill of satin slip on a shin,
the successive raising of fine hairs. Your reflection on the dark
window like the reverse-side of magazine cut-outs. Press the body
against the glass, look into the house. Hands cup the eyes to see:
four blue women lined up like a birthday.
Unforeseen, ellipsis of sofa cushions run out & stranded here
on one small thigh you permit the floor to be just floor again. In a
far corner she winks behind a tinted lens and bends to pick a sock
from the rug. You watch and, with some half-formed notion
on the tip of your tongue, call out. But as she turns, you blank and
wriggle from it - hop blushingly towards the hall.
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