In that house I builta bonfire that illuminatedthe fecund earth around it.And in that split-levelmy friend Tommy, only eightteeth left in his whole head,dug a huge illegal graveto bury his father's packhorse.He marched that sumpterinto the dark study and shot its head on the leftso it would fall right.That night, as if to arguewith the day,Karen and I made loveon the front lawn of the mansionone cul-de-sac down,four feet awayfrom what would bea window crackedopen to allow the outsidein.
-B.J. Ward
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