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16. Sanctuary in the Mountains
At dawn I sail away in bed while four
constellations sleep in place, foremost the Dog.
It gently turns, the house as well revolving.
A wizard in his hollow plies the guests
with mead, a traitor steals account books for him,
plays dead, a knife appears, a stain in bed.
Oh these verbal duels: black rose, white gloves,
poor rhymes. Lying across from one another
for years, will we be able to reach out?
Others can laugh: they have no nation over there.
The wizard knew, his books well reconciled
and nothing for the tax man, only gossip
under the desk, in poems, in a less
than fleeting glance, a handshake held too long.