Fact: I do
strike twice. Fact:
not one blade
of whirling
grass can side-
step my burst,
divergent
lightbulbs. I
plant my thoughts
where maps aren’t
yet drawn; I
ladder down
through trees, drunks,
and steeples.
Close your eyes.
I preserve
what you last
spied. Your world
is no more
than my af-
ter image.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 2.
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