Pen-tips stab and carve script thoughtless
with tongues of fox-fire round my neck.
and floor-boards blaze with swampgas visions
all clocks perch rigid, hands held tall…
Eyes all-seeing, sons of Argus
and piteous spectres peek past panes
but it’s no letter, or invitation;
Malign jibes in soft quatrains
Read like a offer from arachnids
To sweetly mend my sweater
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