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From Ted Hughes' Gaudete (1977)

I hear your congregations at their rapture

Cries from birds, long ago perfect
And from the awkward gullets of beasts
That will not chill into syntax.

And I hear speech, the bossed Neanderthal brow-ridge
Gone into beetling talk
The Java Man’s bone grinders sublimed into chat.

Words buckle the voice in tighter, closer
Under the midriff
Till the cry rots, and speech

Is a fistula

Eking and deferring
Like a stupid or a crafty doctor
With his year after year
Of sanguinary nostrums
Of almosts and their tomorrows

Through a lifetime of fees.

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