The Refinery

68 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW MARTHA BAYLES THE REFINERY The crude is deposited at our gate, and the scanning beginsthe sets of answers laddering out in little penciled rows which, if correct, will sizzle and pop. The duds do not. Our abacus clicks out the count and classifies the mass. Fine meshes of wordage filter out coherent lumps and trap what useful residue is able to ooze through. Now this sediment is spun in the unmoving blur of the centrifuge, then poured still warm into our chilly molds. Enormous cauliflower brains slide out and glisten, wired exactly as required. They stiffen as they dry. We mount them high on varnished blocks where-polished, grey, official crania—they'll gaze into the heart of things. ...