There is an empty room surrounded by dolls
And the dolls are burning, only their eyes
Are untouched by combustion, though the heat
Makes them melt; they bubble and defuse
Like tears. Into the room, where the air
Ripples in its profusions, the dolls
Cannot see. I can see out of the room, and joy
Is the imagined stench of imaginary flesh,
That it must observe curdle and ash,
Coming in currents whose words are ‘shell’,
The forever ‘outside’ of those wicked heaps.
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