I grow weary of lines
Drawn by human hand
Turned in and out
And away
And against
I am tired of pencil-lines
Speak to me, love
Plant words with earth and water
In my echo-chamber chest
Words grow like bones
The woven frame
The inner chasm
Weaver, hunter,
Sower, reaper,
Man of war,
And master-maker,
I tire of these pencil-lines
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