among the society of cartographers: day 6

one does not read while one is keeping watch. one smokes, & thinks, &
in the freeway traffic at hours there comes a sound like the passing

of trains;--& one is called back. i would count ties with you. lay down
a penny, & we will see what there is. Fe, Cu, Fe. flat as passing, as

that which is left in a summer storm only dreamed of here, this land
of cowboys & the post will declare that of your fear: there is no

such address. on a map i know. it is never the territory. one's sight
may fail at worse or better times than this. &, calling, one wishes for a

track back out of this vale, never having desired virgil or guidance
below the treeline. it is late, now, & late. scope is a terror of sight.