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Reply to Lapo Gianni Lapo, we're all slow orphans under the cruel sleep of heaven. We're all either creased and sealed or somebody's cough. Outside the window, twilight slips on its suede glove. The river is fine balsam, fragrant and nicked by cold feathers. Under the grass, the lights go on in their marled rooms. Lapo, the dreams of the dog rose are nothing to you and me. 148 ...

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