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
such this- or that-ness
does not exist,
and the once wild,
romantic, and
obdurate frontier,
as if curdled by fear
of its own
of its own
sudden fixity,
will wilt—
will double back
like it's seeking
lost comfort
in some less conspicuous past
like the hooked-
like the hooked-
under tail
of some little
scaredy cat.
