when letters leave the city

when a book is being set to type,
ink drips out of forest vats,
bombing pages with blots of black-

stories are the stolen seas where letters use their dripping breath
to float through pages rough and secret,
blowing by one at a time
until they settle down and build their fires.
they build their fires and chop down trees,
they tie their horses and plant their seeds,
they run their baths and wait for rain,
they make their love and harvest grain.

letters like their eggs poached.

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