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67 Man in Stocking Anne Simone Hutton The frog-smile was an afterthought; the skin made of raindrops, peppersize, on touching a beaded evening bag, wrinkled wrist and ankle of something recently hatched, a chameleon, dangling from vinetails , had itself crucified between chopsticks, quite dopey from musty earth and slowed by a hanging-fever. Shivers through air-padded limbs had sent a saw across its spine and scissorhands had clutched twigs, had thinned and pulled like plasticine what was a ball of bones. Then it mimicked an air-eater running off rolls of sellotape tongue which snapped back with a trophy. And gurgled with satisfaction. Only a wise man wears a stocking, coloured with the mood of a road or plant, ready to become the meaning of his journey, the space he travels. ...

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