there's a point on the map when

doubts and desapir veer to meet

and idly parade nowhere down a

lonely slum of a one-way street

no compass charts this latitude

where time gross reality bends

for its a quarter of lifeless loss

the geography where love ends

I've drifted here so many times

its memories my endless bane

before me for I sense a reprise

I am sure...

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His favourite word was precipitation

Agog, we'd wait for it,

Windchill factors and average

Mean temperatures too, while once he showed us

How to make a weather station

He's dead now

That kind of geography extinct.

Its Climate Studies now, scaring kids,

Breathing in anxious jargon from

Melting ice caps and rising sea-levels.

Their future.

Slide rules rip u...

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