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Numberless . . . composed that monstrous animal, a husband and wife.—Henry Fielding By law of rod and cone, the closer it gets, the darker it looks. We look benighted. I can hardly make out elbow, lobe or nape, and once we go into the whole conundrum, it's by blind feel, slowly summing something's curve, or multiplying verbs to come, toward where our things have gone—the lampshade, doorknob, chair— they've gone inside: they've faded into eyelid, nipple, hip; it isn't long before the room and roof, the world at large is gone inside us, into humming, thumping, damp, and then there's only inside left to lose, and then it too is lost, all's lost, in a drench, a din of downfall . . . (Voltage pours away in brilliant paralyzing pulse . . . ) Four walls and seven windows reappear. Our shoes show up, right where we left them. Glasses poised beside the bed, the innocence that led us into such an indisdnction. Now the eight-limbed animal begins to pull apart, into the two of us. There's ticking, there's a cooling off. I see, 29 upon a pillow, seven inches from my face, the watched wrists fallen side by side: and yours is a remming of fast-asleep silvers. The other must be mine: it's wide awake, it's strapped with hide. 30 ...

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