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41 Coffee with the Flavor of a Ground Cigar The final thought falls from the biodegradable scaffold toward the cave where the others, holding their kites, peering up out at the world and sipping their juice from the vast canisters we’ve thrown down in quieter moments, and what does it matter, it matters not at all or a great deal in fact, as the big voice says, a ghost stretched between two poles in a field of purple wheat, a blasé metaphor for guilt and meaning, the sort of derision your father would heap on your plate with the dull mashed potatoes, your father sitting there against the window framed with a frame and two candles, after the war, forming a goal through which you flicked all your letters and bad origami, having given up on really working or turning yourself into other things— the final thought falls from the biodegradable scaffold toward the cave, where it’s cleaner anyway, and drums are played and people dress without concern for others, it’s a wave, it’s a saw, and it’s a square again, whatever you said that’s what it was, pointing to the speakers with one hand and tapping your hip with the other, a small boy in a picture in a picture. ...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
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