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  • Topography
    proves impossible
    when we have to love;

    you will see
    for yourself
    what blasphemy
    maps are to land.

    A miscegenate science,
    making animated certainties
    and flat assurances
    out of a well-chosen path,
    their islands of artificial hearts
    floating in bloodlet-ink oceans,
    their cold white assertions
    to depth.

    What we know of love
    maps cheat the eye out of,

    the existence of
    unchartable poles,
    possessed only by the body,
    --its open palms,
    the hieroglyphics
    of passion and wisdom

    creased, crossed
    and looped

    in flesh.
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