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On opening a brand-new half-stitched book of poetry by Charles Bell

But the binding inside page 15, the first poem, frays heavy ivory strings, plumb lines to an image, idea, guy wires which would lace across the face of the poem, threaten to weave a web -- For each thread could catch the hook of a letter, s, c, g, or z, even tie onto an o, and, like childhood's loose teeth which hung on too long (teeth, childhood, all), yank meanings from words, the bite from the line -- Quickly, read quickly, in case the page disappears from the poem --

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