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54 When I Take a Walk After I fasten my soap-clean shirt, pull socks high and firm over muscular calves, buckle pants across a contour of thighs, buttocks as shapely as rugged pears. After I lace and knot my bold shoes and, bowing, cross the shocked threshold, then the sky staggers, the sun unfolds a handkerchief, the mighty fir cracks, severing power. The road’s pyramids of dung raise golden aromas. Women step to the weeds. God messes himself, and the poor exposed mole, tiny paddles slapping, scurries hopelessly for distant cover. ...

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