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Summary
She’s left the greenhouse with dirt on her soles and cobwebs in her hair where gossamer melts to copper wire. Whale oil dangles at her hand, thirty-six years of age; tension makes to snap in her enclosed fist, to burn off the skin of her palm, as do harpoons rip in half the skin of goddesses.
The anatomy theatre’s still lit up.
[On Rom, Micolash, and the calm before the storm, 1866]
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