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blind feel Fool with her enough and she’ll unspool, each wound roll uncurled, snagged and inkpooled at the sentence’s end. Cue up the hush (You’d nest in that room, too, with a winter so enduring.) words, the lagging bits that need more explication. Bring out the dictionary. A fumbling with lock and key—finger ballet, (She’ll come apart —cut the twine.) sweeping over the weave. Braille-coded, and the brain’s own coils (There’s no polite way to put this. —Say it. You’d muck her up.) surrounding the riddle. Fame, not fear, was the impulse. A saintly version of wife. Pet bird. Because one 72 can’t be tied down (She’ll wind upward —called back.) in a devotion without its quirks. Because it’s enough (Divinity. —Right.) to mix the self up in it. Emily in white, Emily in her own. 73 ...

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