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The House as Sculpture as Chapel as Priest It looks like house-tidying, housewife’s art: arrangement of mass, shifted against an endurance. Like spreading a clean white lawn outdoors, with candles and spruce drift, salting the meal with the window. Or, indoors, two pots are earth buds, ear breasts, cue to the ghosts— if you see it. Sweetheart, sitting within the work, move gracefully. Don’t jar. Move as the cat moves, he composes it round him. This is the visible flame of my hearth. The furnace, a deep conch, summons the lares. 16 / The Crisp Day Closing on My Hand ...

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