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The beat of oars, precise footprints neat as shadows over
the surface of the void, moving together, race along the course

with no room for the approximate, leaving a trail to follow
the way letters began as the mark of cranes, messages in the blue,

and where to go forward you look back at the irreversible,
the consequence, chaining you to it, its tight whorls moving over

the surface, so it's as if you stay and they move, telling a story
in which you can't see where you're going until you've been there,

become what you are and betray at your peril.

Brian Swann

Companions, Analogies
Sheep Meadow Press

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