I slept with an old atlas at my head,
beneath the headboard. Between the wood
and wall. Upon the vague borders of sleep,
the light was wavering, and I wondered
about the shifting names and lines we’ve drawn,
of mountains torn in twain in mind but not;
have they been caught in the crossfire of ink
and bullet-tips, or do they stand beyond all that?
Dreams began to row my body inland,
and I knew the page to find them again,
the places and times shown upon no map.
Originally published in The Basilisk Tree
