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iv  Mingus: Self-Portrait in Three Colours Not that he glances out of it, he is glancing away, even the colours are glanced away, doubt overlays them so that they are fired and burn back through the glaze, anemones on a café table, arranged in a liturgy of love, all the colours of blood against the small check of the cloth, the blue has a premonition, there is an inkling in the red, but the magentas pulse as they darken, still in flood, searches rather than colours, chances of the light as it runs the length of its wave, split seconds that give the only glimpse of him.

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