And here is a prairie excerpt.
Tempting for the voice to locate its noise, to speak of or from. Everybody wants to be the singer but here’s the continent.
Fielding the question, Do you like good music?
Open love. In a recurring dream about the prairie, a thin hedge–along some railroad embankment--in which there’s a gap to step through again and again, for me to step through, out onto the view itself. Not the literary ballad, articulated, but onto the continent.
[By the way, the answer to Arthur Conley's question, cited in Cecil's poem above, is "Yeah, Yeah."]