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4 Knife-Sharpener’s Song I said no word of her to him, nor he of her to me, oh yes. We sharpened down the sliding hour the knives wooled thick with rust, oh yes; the days grew small and wider, stripping words down to their edge— cutthroat, flashy, without a flaw— what he did to me, oh yes. Turn by turn, those knives of hers shone quietly aware, oh yes, not I but she would be the one he carefully undressed— but he said no word of her to me nor I to him of us, oh yes. ...

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