The previous night, she had written at least seven poems, reviewed them critically, and then spat upon every one of them. She grasped and wrung each piece of paper so tightly in her hand that they politely succumbed to her indignation, crinkling into misshapen paper globes, worlds of inadequate words. Hands poised in air, a flick of the wrist to
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by Ted Hughes (it's from Birthday Letters, btw ( ... )
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