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In The Unmeasured Womb

Not that I'm alone on the run, up on erroneous deck,
the etymologist that I am always finds grief in places
redolent of loons' lore, of blames for us emissaries
swotting and knotting blunders of cartography.

No, I cannot hide, nor ever wish to, that I stink
of the spicy East of cloves and cinnamon,
and thrill at apes' startled cries and all that bluster
a lot from claimants' clan in the voyaging West.

I should be miles far from the feel of a Faustus,
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Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Topic(s) of this poem: land
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