Blindfolded, without sky- or land-
mark, no lightning-struck fir flagging
the pine break, no particular ark
of known stars—Little Dipper, Southern
Cross—the body, pressing on, no matter
how piano-wired, how absent of play
the mind’s straight-line intention, always
will circle; this—not stasis, not that I trusted
to rescue—why, lost to the woods, I was found
so near where I began
as compass point, as measure of all
direction, though I could recall
nothing, not even my own shadow
returned at the clearing, its field
of scattered needles, the unstitched
spires of pines, where I or the sun
first turned away.
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