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44 Epipsychidion Again TO KAREN It’s not you, dear; it’s Time. Old Butcher Shop, old hands working us over in the meat market. A novelist I knew preferred his muse ugly, in gunboots, overalls, crossed eyes. It was his way of protecting himself. Yes, I did study the poem; yes, I see you in it, and the fainting and the failing, and the delirious island— were perfect for 1960, old Butcher Shop yet to come. But then, the hot, cool place, the flameout and my unembarrassed gaze. ...

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