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NIP
OUT
Just
for the pleasure of circuiting the curtained urbs
in
the very prime a.m. light
looking
for Marmaline, Marmade, for shops
with
doors opining, yawning out
their
glob of slippered whisperers,
he
certained that Alice was flat
and
likely to remain in sheets unawares
for
two or three hours; he told the dog
sorry
he’d have to put up with the arias,
the
khoros auroral, of birds’ cheep-’n’-cheep rag
alone;
and even he left notes
in
his favourite book of crime, Death Log,
that
he would come soon back. Among
his hates
were
incourtesies—they came by the pair
like
stinge and terror. Inkblots
he called them, blots.
So
before he took his pleasure he took some air.
Alan
Marshfield
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