He drew the world not as it is—

but as it might be travelled.

Lines stretched taut like tendons

across the muscle of oceans;

longitudes obedient,

latitudes arranged in tempered rows.

The poles swelled with false importance,

the equator shrank to a whisper.

Yet in distortion, there was clarity—

a map not of truth, but of purpose.

And isn’t that th...

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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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