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The traps I’ve set to capture the shadows follow me


through the dark mornings, the moon hides

again behind the mountain. This towering creature, steady


                and slow—It moves at the scent of rain, shatters

                             to the fall of hail. I accept this exile


                as the river gives in to its frozen banks. For now, I


                string this branch and fish for a new design to build,


wrangle, start to tame. The soil below cranks

away, the gears of its insects buzz and roil. At last,


I begin to feel this taste balancing on my tongue. To set

up camp, to claim this space:


                           the whole of everything as a bucket of fresh

                           water. If I move from this place, the rest


of the universe might move with me. Mollusks bargain

the sun into position, the programming of this season


tracks itself through the wild, icy green.



Circle Poetry Journal///Ministry of Obscure Knowledge  ©  2015