among the society of cartographers: day 7

at last one simply grasps the complexity of trajectory. that's coy. but
look: in an unquiet year one revolves, traverses, traces over. an occult

orbit: the country i have mapped out: train stations, latitudes, the cut
of light on a day snowed & salted in the minute before meeting. a clasp

of hands. reverberation. circles around a center slung in retrospect;
the parataxis of progression. one possesses always this way that which one

has lost to time. but no matter of that now: an arc completing here only
visible if you tilt the axes like so. like so. as now with you, in an

unfamiliar city, all this time marking steady the hours, an antecedent
cycling, locked, in this room in which the maps hung snap to grid, & stay.