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Melted Money Time and time again we told them not to leave their stuff so near the stove. But children have no past, and so they don't believe in futures, really. Whiles and whiles of smoke unwind from houses, causing more or less sky, I can't tell. I spent my life forgetting how a music can be made to pour right off the measured page, and intuition flood the calendar. But animals go stitching our enumerated yards together, world already without end. A little gold spills out from windows in the neighborhood (has everybody spent too much on God's next birthday?). Thanks to the invisible, we are alive. Take heat: you can't directly see it, but it spins a shadow, clear as any cast by iron stove. It is the meaning of the stove, and moving off from it. The children now are nowhere to be seen. The children's pictures look undone. And soon the flesh-colored crayons begin to melt into earth-colored ones . . . 205 ...

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