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From the tangle of a roadmap
the odd familiar name escapes,
cities imagined, even read about,
and a tracing forefinger
follows a road to a border,
over which it and a hand
and a whole body must pass,
which a mind does just now
with less effort than a wind --
call it a reconnaissance trip,
a practice run -- and once there
it begins to enjoy itself,
it revels in the company,
takes off its clothes, even,
doesn't want to come back,
but eyes call it back,
ranging over the page,
then the next page, seeing
a whole jigsaw of countries
unfold beneath them,
urging the mind to forget
its journey, and accommodate
all that space, all those people,
but that mind loves the familiar.
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