Atlas of Being

You make a map of the world,
close your eyes,
and put your finger anywhere,
that’s it, you say
to this home of globe.
A map is like a book, but
where a book demands and dominates,
a map asks to be scried, mastered.
The oceans circle your finger,
lap you with sundog tongues.
The allium rise like planets
to orbit the green rectangle of yard.
Wonder seeps in you, stark as ink.
You put on your shoes and walk into the map.
The street is blue and easy;
the robins tuft their crowns into flattops.
What the map needs, you think, are trees.
The way paper is more receptive to color
if it’s got a bit of tooth. Texture is a matter for the eye
as much as the hand. How, through the bus window,
the accordion folds of new elm leaves
sawtooth shades of green into a grin.
You put your hand to your neck,
you are a red pin, stuck deep,
you put your finger to your lip,
the sound of destination spiraling out,
midnight lightness,
a place to call your body
into the shape of being.