There’s little to do these days but sit in a lawn chair and measure how your shadow eats itself slowly and spits it back out. Everywhere the morning tearing up into daybreak through bald roots, the scribble of cross wires beneath the fertile arras. For every inch of dirt here, there is a country accounted for over those green-ruffled peaks, unconjugated and tenseless.
Andrew Zawacki, from section iv “Diacritics” of “Mise en Scène,” Reasons of Breakings: Poems
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