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123 f r o m c l u b : g r a n d d a u g h t e r p o e m s b o x k i t e We are riding out in the green Dodge, ’72 homemade convertible, to fly a bought boxkite, which we do one windy day a year, past the Presbyterian church. Do you go there? I sing in the chorus sometimes. Mom says she doesn’t feel the need for church. Well, it’s all church, don’t you think? This is church. She smiles, full assent. Yes. Nothing more needs be. It is so windy, a steady thirty miles an hour that afternoon, it takes the kite and all our stinging-handed stringery, grabs the pink plastic holder from our grip, tumbling across the field to hook on barbed wire, break and let the kite sink beneath the treeline toward town, the whole exhilarating ceremony not more than a minute and a half. We then walk around the field eating red clover, find a shed with pressed tin ceiling panels nailed to the inside walls, and not finding the lake, we end on our backs watching cloud-clover rush and reshape. ...

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