Every built thing learns to lean & buckle, any

handcrafted object made to be unmade—that
quick, every undoing. We could draw out these

nights, sketch the hours our bodies move through
into atlas, into plat or chart, almost anatomical,

into something that almost resembles the Plains—
from the Latin flat or from the Latin to lament, we

can’t be sure—then folded up & tucked away,
made obsolete by the first crease, no, the first

mark, made to keep still, to pin down, to hold taut
the things most slack. O, permanent impermanence:

any body ever, the places we inhabit, every way
we measure time & ourselves in it, & how

we’re there & again & staring out—slant of night
-lit horizon, & like any wall map, that line unwound.

 

 

 

 

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