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LAWRENCE EBY

13.

 

 

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.

 

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