Pentecost Joseph Bathanti
Cycling into a straight four miles along a field of silage red and yellow herringboned, like a breech-baby fighting There is in the wicker pod beneath spinning in his little hands so it will take the Sabbath sky. much bigger than the body, prevails. over me and hovers. over the black, the flywheel blurring in the tire rounds. When I left my head to the whisper, beneath the belly into which the pilot |
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