And the patch I sewed with a mechanical thread
Of spun sinew from a fraying stone;
Yet it’s not enough.
A pail of red paint, curved the handle in my hand,
in hope transparency falls to colour,
whose light thickens to a mellow-dusk,
that floods and softens your tongue;
Perhaps then you’ll tell
the sounds without sensation;
how to distil the calcium from your head ,
and the cotton from your tail.
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