Way Signs

There’s a street map in a fisherman’s pocket a splashing sea has soaked its print, signs and roads melt it could be Atlantis, or maybe a bus route of north London. There's an Atlas globe bobbing on a pacific wave, mind-mice have remodeled the continents, details defy interpretation appearance and disappearances wash each other into new way signs. There's a compass in the clouds it points to every direction at once. Places once left behind become palaces in space or desolate parking lots, a cardboard box in Baltimore a cement maze in Ulan Batur. There are watermarks of places never seen until you hold them up to the light and embossed upon your memory are the roads that forked to other destinations, all the places you missed while drawing a mythical map of what you thought you were heading for.