Benoit Pioulard A Woolgathering Exodus
the compass is stuck; direction destructs petty for want of maintaining a precedent the canopy smirks at argument a verdant recess worthy of still-life feet on new floors & the charms of an aleph genesis in the occident parenthesis of a continent allegiant to the idea there is only a right place eras inside themselves, unrepentantly effaced i clutch my few, who stay with me like an aura & tend the garden well, giving rime to the flora the compass is stuck the lamb is amok the compass is stuck; directions destruct
