From what symposium on what
riverbank did you make your way

to open like a book provisioned
for reading, like a moon magnified

to copper before it split in two
and each rolled toward the spell

of their yoked nostalgias? A scapular
has two faces of rough wool: one

to wear on the chest, the other
on the back. Do you see how,

by nature, it trains the body
in the middle toward ballast,

how it spins the compass
that turns around itself?

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