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59 Cartographer’s Mood You left a beautiful body behind the granary. Morning glory wrapped around your thigh. So still, I thought you were in thorns. Then he shook his crowned head in your mind and blood trickled from your ear. Swinging from the wand of a seismograph, or a bird’s broken leg, half-bent nails, I imagine you climbed the tight loops of string I laid on the map, your feet covered in powder, sifting over wet ink. And he cramped in the third hour of your meditation, spinning in your mind, arms out, touching the sides of your brain, and then he grew a fingernail; whiskers when you laid him down. In the fourth hour you were alone, eyes closed, except for a crow who was using your mind for a body, and saw the nail holes in my eyes, you were both holding palm leaves and they clapped against each other when he returned; and the fifth hour was a scepter hitting a soldier’s spear. Then, you said, a morning glory started up the wood and tore open its flower as fronds on guards flew in a wind, and back against their thighs. ...

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