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S T E P H E N D U N N The Rider It is with me now, that falling star that fell half way down to Echo, Minnesota. I saw it last night from the highway, from a bucket seat, a familiar wheel of comfort. It fell fast and then stopped the way a man falls in his dreams; a spectacular hint of destruction opening his eyes. Who will believe me if I insist that a large man was riding it, and the shell of a body drove my car home into the vacancies of garage and self, without mishap, or a single regret? The 1970s ❚ 73 ...

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