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   t o    s e t    o u t,    t o    e m b a r k,    t o

--- S A R A H   S C H E C K T E R

Alone in a room of boxes.
At the center of the woods,
he packs up his mottled universe,
tuning out the argument of crunching 
leaves and blowing reeds,
muffling it, wisping it into the Milky Way
trailing it into infinitely halving space.

He strings his fishing pole and steps outside, scouting the path for stones, skirting a snarl of brush and rose briars. Chipmunks and spiders skitter and dive, making their ways deeper underground.

The trees are cilia, listening. The day’s not saying yes or no, never or now, just keep on. His calf muscles are tight. He bends and ties his shoe, so that he can hesitate before he has to go. A tiny solace, binding.

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