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Sport 43: 2015


page 171


Last year’s trees are dropping.
They drop like sticky fruit.
They drop as the flies rise.
Last year I woke up differently.
This year is the same old mess.

The dead see different centuries
like I see fruit on a tree,
like I see land from the sea.
The ocean climbs the mast.
The deck is covered in salt.

I want to go to Atlas, which is not Atlantis.
I want to give this continent a map.
There is never not something
that doubles back. I am inverting.
I am inventing a new way to act.