Nearby crumbs
of moist earth
fall away
from themselves,
a mole’s
starred snout
surveys the air;
 leaves twirl
through tangled
such small things
the separation
of the distant
hills, until
the horizon bends
toward us:
and again
we are,
and again we are
lost: away
from here,
and close by;
our maps
fold our
into themselves,
our difference.
(October 18, 2013)

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