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57 John from Cincinnati HBO-TV As Esther and her swimmers rose to turn kaleidoscopically within their pools, so we see the inverse now: a canon of surfers whose many-tiered velocity invokes a water-tumbled cove, chamber of spoondrift, as they surf to a hymn that praises Johnny Appleseed. This too is America, the footage wants to tell us—this dialect of Shaker dance, in which the sunny body’s chiaroscuro’d at sea. And Appleseed took care with his scattering of seed, fencing nurseries along the Muskingum, the Ohio, loading his canoe with coins from New Jerusalem. Fill your black hull with white moonlight, Stevens said; but Appleseed had fertilized the land with something more than light: with scattershot blossom and a fruit whose hardness ever will resist the tongue and teeth. May it dapple far from Imperial Beach, where a regal sunbeam pauses on a kissed X of creature life: a horseshoe crab? No, human sex. And the shot’s subliminal: they could be two, or three. ...

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