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Wittgenstein: ‘A picture held us captive. And we could not get outside it, for it lay in our language and language seemed to repeat it to us inexorably.’

‘Moth’ she said, and he turned his head to her, smiling.

Velvet along the fractured threads let us name what had broken from the web.

Still hungry, she repeated ‘Moth’ more insistently.

They were at the window and at the window tapping till he turned out the light.

No child any longer asked for a story since ‘Moth’ was every word under her flying finger.

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