Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 Poetry |

The Map Is of Another World

I. This legend is uneasy, unreliable, wrong—And restless. I am of two hearts and between One word and the body's little failures. The sky is adding numbers in its sleep: One plus one plus one … O, still is one. II. And the sun with its serious red—every dark Is not a shadow the dead cavort in. And yes The living stumble but stumbling is the least Of what could come. I have told you of Some of this. Something salty in the telling. III. How we are alone. How we know this. All the time in a world barely formed. The dark curtain open and in my sleep One long dead comes still wanting. O poem, I have never seen a mirror like you.

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I. This legend is uneasy, unreliable, wrong—And restless. I am of two hearts and between One word and the body's little failures. The sky is adding numbers in its sleep: […]

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