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The Pen

The sandy road, the bright green two-inch lizard
little light on the road

the pen that writes by itself
the mist that blows by, through itself

the gourd I drink from in my sleep
that also drinks from me

—Who taught me to know instead of not to know?
And this pen         its thought

lying on the thought of the table
a bow lying across the strings

not moving

Door in the Mountain: New & Collected Poems