Monday, June 18, 2012


If north depends on where you are,
what is ever certain or solid?

Facsimile maps of self are fraying,
flawed rivers not flowing,
landscape broken but
wielding a compass,

You kick feeble, familiar rocks off the way, into a cliff,
for no other reason than to learn.

Is south where you are, or were you
even willing to be?

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