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Gelid, but finally torrential, humming on a marble
slatted sheet bed, a clear-toed farthing spins and slides,
up to the ocean raft held prisoner on the North Curl. He
buries a pair of blistered magnet rings, crunched and lustrous,
under a splint of lacquered orange, and stands, blinking to
the shore.     

Veering to the left Frost Surface, the raft responds
raucously, braying and merging, an insect borne to heights
of stained crown by the instincts of the cage. But the
farthing fondles the flicker of slick veneer to sift out
the sand and grit of the ripe fruit. He sings tonefully,
a lung with a horn and two felt pads.