The mind is large: an auditorium
that could shelter whole neighborhoods
unhomed by a natural disaster. Or maybe it is
some kind of ancient labyrinth
whose blueprint could only be memorized
by touching each object along the way
and reciting their names in order. Then,
weeks or months afterwards, one
finally steps into the center and comes
face-to-face with the creature
that sat so long in the dark waiting
for your arrival. It asks you
what you've brought besides that filthy
ball of string which used to be red
but now looks caked with mud. Wouldn't you
like to know, you say, handing it to him
and taking his place in the center as it moves
toward the opening in the hedge.

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