When did I forget how to plotter, how to be scunnert, how to look for foozle under the bed? Even when my Libra soul pendulumed alarmingly, I didn't swither. I quarreled with the Bens, sent the burns into exile. Nuala sees her language as a boat, a coracle to launch in the bulrushes and send off to some Pharaoh's daughter.
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Poetry