We come out of malcolm's book almost a clare. When the smoke lies down in the yard and the stove backs up, when the night outlasts the lamp, i ask for all the things they say. I have hand of a hangman, fat of an infant, a white goose whose flesh could feed me seven years. It a buck hair's kick for any sickness. Ajar of the cure, lucifer's ear. Look on one side the track, the beck a shoulder of black moor on the other side, the long drop behind my door. There moving lights, imminent arrival, fox fire, smell of fear, odd stars. That's very beautifully.

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