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He knows what he wants when he sees her
from her sister's bed;
he wants a shot at the other spread, wants to plant himself
headlong into new springs.
He won't stop with one good box
when there's another,
a fresh one over there, barely a generation's length away.
Isn't that what legends teach —
the lesser god, persuaded by a young vision,
drifts like loose down,
is lulled with camel thirst to an endless well and falls
mouth-first into an oasis.
He wakes up in an old children's book, fingering the pictures
of empty shoes; flip the page.

      — C. J. Sage