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Nothing to see
except gigantic gourds
tan as a horse's hide,
exotic as Eskimo songs.
Nothing to buy except ceremony,
this ethnic rite
available to all,
a circle of cultural codes--
$5 admission.
Nothing to fear
except the irritating thought--
a pebble in a shoe--
that I might be exploiting
a ritual, a custom, a people.
Or that they might be
using me, us--
sizing us up
as we contemplate them,
both camps searching
for something authentic.
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