Thursday, February 13, 2025

GONE CROOKED

At the end
of the line, there aren't 
any lines. 

On the borders 
of a picture, no one's 
eye is fixed.

At the edge 
of every squiggled   
demarcation on the map,

such this- or that-ness
does not exist,

and the once wild, 
romantic, and 
obdurate frontier, 

as if curdled by fear
of its own 
sudden fixity, 

will wilt—
will double back

like it's seeking 
lost comfort 
in some less conspicuous past

like the hooked-
under tail 

of some little 
scaredy cat.