we're aiming at fault lines
across blank page tundra
where poets sketch rough drafts
of homes with strong foundations.

landscapes of empty notebooks
awaiting sudden visions
and the redefining of words,
populated by drunk angels,
the high divine with dirty halos
caressed by creation,
knocked up by immaculate perception
whose children can move mountains.

topography subject to editing,
whole rivers changing course
with the arrangement of imagery
leaving behind confused salmon,
dry creek critics left in the sun.

continental drift reverses
with the addition of one last stanza.



 
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