The gate to the transformer in the alley behind miracle #32 that abuts history at a right angle, Also abuts your mind. The alley's made of cobblestone, and the abutment smells of honeysuckle, the stones wear well, except the one that rots, being made of wood, that trips you when winter heaves the frozen ground. A place for the cable car turnaround, now abandoned, is marked by a steel rail that flares onto the main road from this lesser alley, that hides the old conductor's longtime scream "Turk Street, Turk Street, get your bread and get your meat!". What is horror but the paint factory smell within sight of the woods that live beside the transformer just off the alleyway that buries the cable car rail? And those cries? The children play, honeysuckle strangles the old boards -- a fence that saves them shock. The rail juts into the main, and the conductor, railman, is a ghost when the turpentine fills you with a willingness to die. 5 May 1996 James A. Gardner
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