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What Now that the soul’s become A nervous zero-sum, Something the cortex’s Pavlovian synapses Produce by accident— A blur, a taste, a scent, That seems to (but does not) Refer back to a what . . . What is it that your gaze Locked on my face conveys? And whose is the colloquy Of silent sympathy I share in seeing you? What is it makes us two Indivisibly whole, Dearest, if not the soul?  You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

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