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The nine-year-old hockey puck Bounced from the fender of an olive truck Now bounces a leather ball on his forehead. The old lady who scrounged potted meat From foreign men lying in a mortar pit Now sells gold jewelry in Santa Barbara. The dead are not dead but wave at pretty strangers From their pick-up trucks on Bolsa Avenue. They sit at formica tables smoking discount cigarettes. Some have dyed their hair, changed their name to Bill. But the living, some of them, like to dig up the dead, Dress them in their native costumes, shoot them again, Watch their bodies rise in slow motion.

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