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Thursday, June 29, 2006


Escape
When foxes eat the last golden grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I'll build

But first I'll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands,
Making blind moons of allyour eyes,
And muddy moons of all your hands.

And you may grope for me in vain
In hollows under the mangrove root,
Or where, in apple-scented rain,
The silver wasp-nests hang like fruit.

-Elinore Wylie

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