A PESTILENCE OF ONE
But this happiness thrives, not
the sadness instead, as I bring
my boots to the parlor : putting
them on, one after another, to
feign my far walk. It's really
only down the street, and this
is not the dead of Winter I
claim. I've done these lanes
before; know the lights and
alleys, the mailboxes and all
their wending ways. Here a
fence-gate does not work, but
portends perhaps a different
fate; while there a post that
was crushed by a limb still
stands, both crooked and
twisted together. Oh, go on,
I mumble to myself, we'll
make a roving arrangement
together, and soon enough
it all shall be.
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