Time being, and soul’s ventricle lapses, I will set this map on the table, and set forth for a lap About a trail and beside my own Canola ocean, to feel the trail like a spirit feels a body, to magnet forth upon this valley road, to love the golden wave and wind oppressing body, the grappling Invisible Hand, to weigh each micro-mechanical particle, each bristling canola seed, pure heat potential, strung about, pulsating stiff orthodoxic stalks tipped in divine flame, breathing stalks and breathing seeds, breathing with westerly valleyed gasping, that same intermingled wind buried beneath fleshy legs and distant elk hides. Your Gods, not mine, watch and see my hooked figure, and sun bruised blood orange neck passing along, passing through, le voyageur qui sait qu'il est vivant, burning mortal eye pacing a down slope, tickling earth, as it were, with ruddy boots and slack steps. Seeing the far sleeving stretches of wild grass, I think back to my journey’s beginnings— inky black prose stinging heart and mind— and consider a days distance, the gap between two selves. Breathing
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