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The Unfinished Country
I draw the lines, they trace themselves
straight, true to paper scaffold
crackling up against a vision
Of lands great and beyond sky’s reach,
sumptuous, possible and laid before.
Too coloured from rain to grip
quills again, if I weren’t
so sullen I’d do it
myself without a moment’s
Mulling over the shape
air makes over borders.
As if skipping lightly, traversing
taps through boiling last lances,
my shapes are not so undefined;
capitals have roots to road,
set down on high, from distracted hands.
In that they weren’t so different,
in delirium tremors,
Than the last time I stepped
out into newfound soil,
terrain yet to be overrun with
razor wire and shadow figures
That rode and came along
through buses and Buicks to be here.
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