smoky veil
while a forest elsewhere burns
& my phantom-stuck veins
tingle, taut the knurl
quarters in the meter meanwhile
perhaps in time i’m fixed
cannot believe however
the far side of the river
seems never simply next
& rarely with a smile relaxed
under these conditions
shaped breath follows breath
a thing to injure with
among edged intercessions
brings Good News to the Martians
Language isn’t the map: it’s the territory.
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