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14 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW the streets had curbs, like the feelings, the eyes closed when you lay them down. A brightly painted collection of quaint customs, impartial laws, that one could take out and play with like a memory of childhood, the occasionally chipped paint being part of the quaintness, part of our hope that, like Pepsi, we needn't happen to everything. We haven't, of course. And we wont. In the meantime a pallor falls on everything, even England. Through which we see, more easily, real people doing real things. GARY MARGOLIS THE BAKER Beethoven opens the oven door where a bluebird hovers over his fresh pies, crying Fly away Maestro, fly away. He draws the steaming tray toward him, inhaling the hot apple air, testing the moist crust with his fork. The bird does not follow, but rests inside on an iron rack, blazing blue. All night the sky burns in his eyes. Toward dawn, everything glows turquoise, a city of feathers and fugues, a small blue flame at the back of the oven. Even now, in a new day, rolling dough and slicing fruit Beethoven sings, Fly away Maestro, fly away. ...

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