They flee, half-obliterated
faces frozen flat to paper.
Behind them, a river careens.
Mountains slice sky lit by a siege
of flailing stars, scissored strips
of cloud, no cover.
They might be anyone, these haggard
travelers, a people marked, caught,
carved by a master, his plywood
blocks, inked, pressed, reproducible,
expulsion destined to occur
over and over though never
the same way twice—undulant wood grain,
colors, frenzy of dash, strength,
and the eyes, the myriad eyes
staring straight at you from the depths
of the dead page, waiting, waiting
for you to tire, to turn away.
