By Thomas Page

Everything in its essence has a point

Somewhere on a quantifiable map

On this green rock in the black, a bluepoint

May hold all of the gravity and sap

Forces like saline water that pinpoint

Everything ever said into a snap

Of a shell sitting in sand at gunpoint

Of scheming poets taking it from strap

At their waist, a cowboy of the new West

In the movies of the past glorified

In tints of silver like the horse known best

In allusions in cracker barrels dyed

Sepia for old-times-sake—vision quest

Of yesteryears drawn from memory tried

Not realities true; history at rest.

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