WEBVTT

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"Pelt. "

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"Little soul, the
book of your hours

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is closing over its golds,
its reds, your gazing dog,

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your rivers, ladders, rib cage.

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A life turns into its
patterns and perfumes,

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then into its pelt. I don't
know now if we were one,

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if we were two, a stippling.

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Whither thou goest, we'd said."

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