There is a line that is invisible,
flecked with silver, that goes
There is a map at the back
of this book, in pencil, with roads
marked one through seven.
When some time has passed,
the roar is a distant waterfall.
The flowers that come from the ground
are purple and yellow,
are red, with scent of anise and death.
I don’t remember what it is a map of anymore.
I wish the birds were returning, reversing the past.
We can’t get our bearings, sweet truck back-up beep.
breaks like a paperweight.
Rewind and it restores.
Broken, always ends up,
Still. What, still?
I want to read the paper
in the sleeping man’s hand. I can’t
pry open. I imagine
the story in the curled pages.
I walk into a field of fragile things,