Tedious excision, like severing
mold lines from a crusader:
You razor our home from its played-out old world,
lift it up like a cloud-hoisted castle,
oaken ark driven by many
waters up from a still plain.
It drifts like a lily shorn off from its root
and then settles downstream: little farm,
far-flung tracks still intact,
framed now by scarp and topple,
precipice edges abutting the ocean,
sunflower plains, mushrooms suited
for shortcuts and shrinking,
stippled allium and oxeye ringing the trees.
Our matching maps, new-made and blank,
unveil step by step what’s ahead of our marks,
a half-glimpse before us. An inkling. A hint.
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