Go on unfold
a waxed map in your hands
you pen its insides
you spell its name
you fear what you've made
as if it's empty, it stays
mountain on mountain
wood stuck into wood
wildgrass against wildgrass
ingrown in creases.
Your hand on its cover
a vow a curse of truth
you swear to tell
and nothing but.
jan 5, 2012
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