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4 Poetry The Dacca Gauzes
4 Poetry The Dacca Gauzes
a dead art now, dead over and the cotton shipped raw
a hundred years. "No one by the British to England.
now knows," my grandmother says, History of little use to her,
Years later when it tore, One morning, she says, the air
many handkerchiefs embroidered was dew-starched: she pulled
with gold-thread paisleys it absently through her ring.