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The putty in your hand is a kind of protean person if you allow your brain to swim the murk between its spongy pillars. Or the putty could be two halves of a kidney bean— if your hands are steady like a surgeon’s. In the surgeon’s hands the putty should be a sculpture worthy of a shared steppe or an office with a mounted spear and countless empty picture frames. In the poet’s hands the putty should be plain putty—shaped as much by its container as it is caprices in the air.
