I, too, hear America singing From where the margin is the center I hear it sing the whistles of guillotines that sit upon heads like tropical fruit basket hats, overflowing with small universes of bounty and fiefdoms of riches I hear it sing with the chomp of perfect teeth on a cavendish, masticating fruit & bone & guts with the subtle moan following the first sip of coffee in the New England cold I hear it in the buzz of fluorescents reflecting off pyramids of produce, the swing of cash...
