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The marksman, the poet, and the mapmaker
together saw a sliver of light at dusk. The first
took aim, the second found its name, and the third
on hard ground drew 5 circles, and then made the 5th

a shadow. “I remember every tree,” she said, “from here
to the new there, and back again. Draw it, you will create it.”
The poet kept her silence, feeding the moon to the night
as worlds arranged themselves in her throat.

The young marksman, thin as his own arrow,
his voice like fire at the cold lake’s edge, said:
“We’ll have a treasure hunt by the stream where
Dada once caught a dirty fish.” The poet’s eyes not
seeing but knowing. “X marks the spot.”
2015-03-17 15.10.05