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  • 1. Title

    No one calls my name by accident on busy streets.
    I don’t turn to catch them looking, blank as deer before
    the leap, tails gone white with fervor or favor or prescient
    knowledge of the gun before the blow.

    I’m not the deer in this paperwoods.
    But we knew that. The first time I burred
    your bootsocks, clinging. That grove of apples
    has long gone grown, broken by ivy-veined hearts,

    by the breathblown bloom of the glories of morning.
    Sweet turns sour when it rots. Even the apple no longer
    splits. Alabastered sweat, slick as a saltlick.

    I told you: I’m not that kind of girl.

    2. Compass Rose

    In any direction you like.

    Why didn’t anyone tell me that?


    3. Neatline

    [Fuck that]

    4. Inset

    The map folds this many ways.
    That’s not a wrinkle; it’s a crease line.
    Not a mole. A pin point.
    Not a vein. An invitation to sweetstroll
    rivered bluebys.

    Don’t look so goddamn close. Your fingertips
    are printed to trace the way sheets crease, how water
    bruises the edges of things into pulp. How the route is
    never larger than it appears.

    Something set in
    its ways. I had to look it up before I realized
    they meant me.

    5. Legend

    Explain this to me, then.

    5. Alternative Legend

    God says no to me every day. But I never
    believed in god anyway.



    Image taken with iphone in my living room at 6am.
    Words written on the train from Portland to Seattle.
    Brain on traveling, maps, love, wanderlust,
    Ears on Leonard Cohen, John Gorka
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