And on the seventh day, the map altered the dream

Landscape flat at first
as a sheet, then billowing as
a sea; ringed
with a crown of trees stretching toward the hills, where fog
is thick as animal pelt—
She tried to make
her way back, though more often than
not, she would lose
her way.
Each time, she surrendered
yet another word for passage:
cypress, salamander
on an outcropping of rock. Just
as she woke, a current snaked
through her head—
every path
she crested peeled or sloughed away,
then thickened again like moss.
The soles of her feet
are leathered
with such wealth; why
would she want to put flowers
in her hair again.

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