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76 and one Half way to Winnebago I found a spot somewhere in Kansas, western Kansas, while driving all night toward the Pleiades. I broke a piano where trucks crossed trains. The keys and hammers pounded down the tracks. Ajar, Kansas. Maybe someone forgot to cross an “X.” Sidewalk board claps the head and silent horses rattle tack, thinking sleigh. The floor above rattles with walking talk. There is no speech today without rhythm. The stomach rocks with a music it knows so well that it has forgotten the scale. Tilting the platter of the land to roll into the sockets of the eyes, lowering the mouth till crickets kiss it, I counter an unhappy rap with cheers. With so much grass to cut, who can think of plowing? No storefront seems to grieve of its blighted street, fluent cheese, salutary detours, dogged looks at architecture, these are our products now. 77 A man works, knowing legacy.The work of nature is so wise she doesn’t need eyes. Our nakedness finds its clothes. Nothing else requires such small work for immortality. It’s a pleasant apparatus; from one end it kills you, from the other it makes you uninterested in anything else in the world. Egg-timer talk frees us from logical thought and the harvest flew to the table as a meal. ...

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