ROUND ROBIN
There's always a story around the
campfire, about the horse that
ran away, or the old Indian guide
who brought it back, in pieces,
and chanted it whole again. Then
the dark coffee stops and the new
bloodletting begins. We plot lines
on a map to get to the gold. All
those supposed ramps and canyon
entry rocks and gulleys. The stars
up above, the millions on high,
the spirits of faith or despair -
it's nothing like that. They have
none of that there.
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