We buried her yesterday under a ring of rocks and apple blossoms. All that Saturday, all that summer, the involved forms of human dwelling bristled through her page. It was the year the monkey took the place of the cowboy in our national iconography. Now a horrid horse of brass, clangingly ridden by a cowboy with a monkey’s face, corrals us into myth down alleys of krylon and greasy grass. It is the moon above the gas station.
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