Sunday, February 28, 2010

Dear MapMaker's Son

Please show me the charts kept
in the secret desk compartment
in your father's study,
I promise that if they show the road
to an imaginary city or
the lover's cottage that nearly
exists in the woods we'll
depart at once,
wearing only our skin
and the clothes that rest
upon it. Show me the way
to the land of frank rabbits
or the country of cats or the place
where flocks of birds are born. Saddle
up the horses. I shall loosen
the drawstrings
of the feedbag which once had been my heart.

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