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10 Vespers Each escaped by district, the lonely welding of bones—Forgive us: we punish ourselves, each our Mondrian chambers arranged— the rank, the fetid breath impenetrable, wet, kept. Each our hypnotic rite to outdo yellowing days, the haze that clouds the edge of hours. For the sundowns seep into the dawns lest we remark them, lest each his tarnished isolated blade whet to knick a rift into the too-smooth surface, ration minutes into wells to shape a message—an artifact— answer—a clue? ...

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