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81 afro-GreGorIan ChanT The wild monks sing and my fingers are pushed for good, eight hours wafered, the perfect food for the broiled toast of your sleeping knees. The Great Smoky Mountains fall in on us, Cherokee trees curl liquid smoke and I am alone with the curve of the road and a missing hand, which now has fallen asleep beneath, along with the rest of you. This is the holiest of life. The castanetting call of celibate men frolicking the air, Gregorian monks chant away spanishly, as the shawl of Appalachia is thrown, and you asleep through it all, missing the bloom of God in fall and the salt of palmetto shores closing in. 82 As the sun bakes your face through the tempered stained glass into the holiday warm of pecan pie, the soft mouths of chosen chanters turn to wedding bells; while inside the pine and the baobab the everywhere eyes of mere lovers boil. ...

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