And then your own page,
loaned in prefatory light: 
the print dissolves 
into corners, letters 
loosened at the borders—

and you read as the aviator 
reads, tracing the sleeve 
of the Chesapeake, 
wandering a blaze
over Broadway at night:  

you the prime mover, 
who’d dipped in the foam 
circling your ankles
and washed, and wrote 
it all as if on water: 

miles above a dust basin
deep in the continent’s
plexus, you felt     
a bitter stream scar,
trickle on the land. 
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