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Compass

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my dial spins like shriveled hands
flipping through autumnal atlases
each leaf locked in tornados.

my joints ache in November
when fog curdles.
backyards and boulevards
shift like gray mazes.

i bounce on a keychain
seeking the Northwest passage
or a sailboat
that will never cross
the puckered horizon.

geometry obeys its own laws

when hope is lost
i shatter against the frosted cement
and sparkle like mica.

when i lose hope
i am worshiped like paris rain
and honey
and salt
and blonde hair
and promises-
which are twice as pretty as lace vases
but three point two times more fragile

i know bitter and cynical and tired and cold cold that stings my brass joints.
i remember your destination
after the march.

North.




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