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If you laid our dreams end to end, they would reach to the moon,

or the last rock in the wall at the end of our nights.


In this way we have found a circular lyric,

a small song that does not stop even when it comes to the end of the line.


I remember you gave me the map and the bone and asked for a path.

I drew the edge of the land and the start of the sea with rocks.


My ponderous map was noiseless and voiceless, sending us back to the west.

Here we are then, without water, hoarders of stones.



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