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Aleph, Apocalypse

Vanity makes me imagine
myself placeless. But
isn’t there such a thing

as a sextant? Shelves
of books, of maps?

A tapping, or a slow
ripping of fabric:

two nights in a row
he’s dreamt it
falling from the sky.

Briar rose? Brightly-
colored bird? Pearl,
sweet weight?

We move, not the earth.

No, the earth moves.

A simple wind unstayed her.
It was as if she’d never known
the word for “fullness”—
You were my still water.

You are still my water.

It’s never over—
the end of a world’s
not the end of the world.
Posted 08/26/10
Previously published in The Seattle Review Vol 3, numbers 1-2, 2010
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