it’s a question mark, really
,
a hook
a crook
pulling us off stage and into
the next phase. it’s a dusty
,
untrusted
rusted muffler
of a song, a torn page. it’s
the rearview mirror skewed
,
things closer
close-her
than they appear. it’s here
and there and back again
,
map veins
free reins
under your skin. it’s true
north and all points south
,
by far
by stars
and the blues we leave behind.
::
In April, we poem.
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