restricted access Letter from the Field of Vision
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16 L e t t e r fr o m t h e F i e l d o f V i s i o n A prairie is plain, they say—those who have not stood in one. You can see so much further when the land is flat. There’s no more to see here than anywhere else, just space in which to see it. Space to call myself you. To call you twice a day and never dial the last number. What I call you, dear heart, is just a space I fill with whatever I want to believe. Twice a day I take the phone into the prairie, wade into its grasses to feel something on my skin. Hair-tie binding my wrist. I keep seeing the treeline as shore. Swimming in chest-high grassland, in no discernible direction, though everything around me is vista. Sweet further-on. A wound on your throat keeps you from speaking, and my hands are tied. ...


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