Reclaiming our land
Every map is out of date.
The roads go to unbuilt houses.
How do the tortoises know
there's bush on the far side of the tar?

At night stars fall like gooseberries,
one into my lap, one into your lap,
husked in cosmic permissions.
Everyone gets a star.
Soon there'll be none left.
You have to eat it; they aren't for planting.

Put up a mirror where you are
and make yourself at home in your familiar eyes.
Outside the wind blew it all away.

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