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       A Verse Narrative by Michael E. Mautner


42



    Floating, floating on a leaden store;
    roping, roping the corrugated shore.
    Lyla leaps from the raft and sends her craft
    swiftly back to lee, to sink in the drink
    leakily.  To the steel bank her boots stick.
    She looses the tank, feels her toes and feet
    sigh in relief, then marches off to meet
    the one who lives in this land replete
    with daft imagery.  He was a thief
    in uniform, who tried to steal command
    in form that he'd long possessed in fact.
    She seeks Zod, exiled to Zon to stand
    nowhere alone, Lord of an empty tract.
    He will know the geography
    of this mystic rift in space,
    will take her to the transition-place,
    if she breaks down his martial shell,
    turning her cheek to his first slaps.
    So, at least, she has been told.
    She steps lightly along,
    lying low to keep her advantage
    of surprise, and to keep herself bold.
    Happen on him, stealthy creeper,
    before this subplot gets old.



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