Another’s Lines


Some days reading is more a task of imagination – staring – off the page

instead of following scripts

Sometimes early on,

moving late into night

words

are more shards

than window or mirror

Each page alternates between

one last chance and one time

The blazed path is somehow rocky

and switchbacks

switch no more

the slope is angled

almost 90 degrees

and the road cut

right up the median

The blanket a half inch of wool, cotton or snow

all seen a good chance against this

City and country both real

but the words so strewn

make no stops

at either station

Then this pen has to equip itself for travel

to the end

not being reached

today

in another’s lines

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