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1 D e a F e a r i watch a motorcycle smoking on the street, tree tops wrestling, some soprano hollowing her arms and breasts and lips around a body on the stage— and, with them, no sound, whatever that may be. Mostly, i’m content. seeing is enough. But now i’m walking a nebraska road, at dawn, before the cars have found it. over there, a square white house, two pines, a shed and silo. Four cows sleep in an endless field. a full moon settles 2 west beyond a stand of timber, and along a disappearing line of fence, a dogwood eases into bloom. i see and breathe. no single smell drifts in, but still i take the scent of prairie absences. now i believe: another door could open on this emptiness. i long for it, your huge countryside of silence. ...

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