And legends

MAPS

What am I good for. I’m no use for direction—

that I never learned the taxonomy

of velocity, the named streets, the numbered

highways, the oil-black gears, secret

cylinders, the spark of combustion, flashpoint,

the miles and the minutes. But,

distance. But, distance, born to it

and beginning the instant of the first

breath: in my bones, the marrow-filled fossa,

I know it the way the moon knows

water. Knows you, blinking back

the day, the song on the radio a currency, a current.

In chilled air I shopped for a map,

but found pills, found baggies of bad food,

found camouflage to hide me,

found neon lighters and nothing worth want,

never. And I left, the rusted bell

above the door singing

its song to passage. How could I not start to sing,

then, of the spent condom

by the dumpster, shed like a skin, sun-yellowed,

used up? All I wanted

was not this.