|The Giant Who Learned To Dance
The truck is ready in the lawn, where we want this country to faint, tired as we are of espresso highs and spiders, the mountains high with sloe gin jars, and um but you pricked the berries, so the jars are dry and full of old nickels, golf tournaments and cysts, all of us —meanwhile—occupied with lousy oars and reasons to ford what we ford, left with this truck and a pair of nylon baseball gloves, at attention left and right to impress some dance upon it, moves we see in others and chastise but practice in our razor mirrors, tracing across our eyes (in Batusi V’s) the route to KFC and the cemetery, the graceless lack of distance between all things, all fraught in the grass under the truck, the night over the truck, and God if we could buy a day off we would! yet back he calls in bowls of yams, in a deer at the back door, in the phone call from our cousin about the Kevlar that saved his life, which is a nice thing we guess, how we never saw Kevlar as more than a word of television—until tonight—how Kevlar sings, tonight, as an accordion peddler in his too–tall hat, spit blitzing the glass of the truck, the bed of the truck, the wheels of the truck down the road of the truck, over the million ants: slaves for our sedan chair (why do I feel gutless? ) squeezing us through and off the lot to the rigor and the salt, to the hands we use not for hallelujah, not under the river of soap, not for nothing but to lock.
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