A compass

Find North. That red line. 

     I couldn’t tell a hawk from a handsaw.

To figure out where to go,

first figure out where you are. 

Where you are is relative

to where you want to go.

It’s a conundrum. A paradox.

     I’m as green as they come.

We could just start walking;

hope for the best. 

Like sitting through church— 

without a Bible.

A sort of spiritual dead reckoning. It’s sailor talk.

     You don’t know shit from clay.

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