A long time

             Two decades, but gone

in the blink of an eye.

Inside them, 

                       the craft

applied to what could be called

making        life: purposing empty

      space, collecting evidence.

How finally we learned

                   the elusive was its own

refrain—

              Each summer, those ships

with jaunty banners and sails

slipped into the harbor; and wasps

                built their homely nests

before abandoning them again.

         How did the bull

deep in the labyrinth sustain

himself between 

each seeking?

                        Eventually, it too

must have learned the trick 

of the crimson thread we wind

around our wrists—

           How it flashes like a vein

or a capillary of ore 

that tethers one measure

to another, though the distance

              going in isn’t always 

                     the same that spirals out. 

 


	

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