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Maps, Charts

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I will count
the indents of your
spine,
map the hollows
of your back,
place them.

Keep them there,
in an order,
to save you.

In whatever way I may,
chart you,
a preservation of
how you are.

There, a body.
No way to chart spirit.
But a topography
of some mysticism
lies within the form.

An essence
I shall try to
gather,
to make sense of
with measured steps.





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