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Morning Now the room barely contains me. I am so much of the moment And stark appearance thrusts Its mottled self squarely into my eye: Something sensitive is lost to the sensible. What was held in this room [suspended in horizontal fixture] defined and squeezed and nestled into its own nebulouscurvatureexistence is gone. Books on the bookshelves. Just books. A bed, a bed. The gingham pattern on the bedspread Looks superfluous. The curtains spread gingerly. The light trickles in...
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