October 16, 2008
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I know nothing of enough
and blue-bow mornings,
When the arrow flies straight
Or true.
My strings are tightened daily
By patent lace-tying hands;
But I belong to the mountains,
Their geology, their religion
Of suns rising and falling
On a mission of portrayal.
I am all over the place
On flat ground,
My peaks and curves
Forming and fanning out;
Frequencies of you.

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