I have agreed to follow this trajectory

to its end, where it is staunched
by a crevice at the close of language.
I have made mules of my hands, foals
to pull me onward and make me lithe
so at the finish, the fissure will accept me
and my limbs will vanish through the comb of rock.
Who will know me after
I reroute my tongue to the marsh beneath,
like each of the four veins
crawling back to the Tree, always
dragging their codas behind them.
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