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Malak Mattar, Untitled (detail), 2024, charcoal on paper

Why not leave small offerings
on rural routes for the mystics
at the D.O.T.
who in their cabalistic
wisdom make a sign
mean less the more
of them you pass.

There’s peril in
the arrow, in its angle—up
and to the left.

A man might come from
a strange country, to travel
in the night.
An animal
might publish its uncertainty
in the median.

I want not to take literally
all indications, nor seek
secret shortcuts to
a private drive.

I am off the map.
A wayward vector, the metaphor
of S—as in here
go slow awhile,
or next 2 miles, soft
 shoulder.

Published: | Online 2005

Jesse Lichtenstein

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