among the society of cartographers: day 2

a life in chambered glass--some taxidermist's trick--some push
of pistons, pressure-shift: & punch the key: it sticks. you see.

there is no good meter for this, no clean rule to convert your flat
back to worlds. confusing topology for topography: on a bar-napkin

not drawn to scale, the rings my scotch left on you; i clinging contours
& have not seen our ways diverge. there is something to be said

for the clear way. but i do not. of this new referent already weary
for it is autumn & one looks for the good rhythm again, that which

with another one may, by match-flare& luck, unhurried rove over.
toward the sharing of breath. what's forgotten may return. one limbers.