This road leads nowhere. I live at its end where breezes
wilt and the sun still burns my darkened skin.
I’ve sailed to Oman, but have never seen the Dakotas.
My friend searches for the concealed parable in this truth.
An early clay map depicted Babylon surrounded by a bitter river,
and an island named the sun is hidden and nothing can be seen.
Fitting the limitless within boundaries, she remembers no one.
The lighted sign says boots, but I see books.
Venturing from the shadows, she offers an accord: intersecting borders,
we must retain ourselves, deliver what calls.
In our place between the hidden and the invisible, consider
that neon gas possesses neither color nor odor.
What lives in creases and at the periphery? The isle called beyond
the flight of birds has crumbled from the lower edge.
Where I stand defines my portion of the spherical earth.
Crossing lines, I look to the sky, its bisected clouds.
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