Jan/Feb 2006 Poetry


by Corey Mesler


        for Paul Auster

It unspools like a river,
like the silver
filaments of the moon's knitting.
At one end you sit,
the storyteller;
at the other I read you as if
your chart will
lead me to the hidden treasure.
In the middle
a group of people mill about,
their hats as colorful
as a cyclopean box of yarn.


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