Map Poem 1: To the Marginal Road: First Calle Number 2 and then the Atlantic
It rains three days, a sky bent on keeping each day for itself. drops meet roof, gutters waiting. drops off-beat against a Camry's drum hood. rivulets like corn-rows snake their way down root, feet, down broken intersection, down street. water winds towards water, eating itself along the way - the edge of the margin waits.
On why you never go anywhere...
First, the thought must enter your mind.
Then your mind must enter your body.
Your body argues against moving.
Moving quarrels with the soul.
The soul swallows the notion,
imagines its potential, plans the outcome.
Meanwhile you sit back, clasp your hands
close your eyes,
And the moment is gone.
(Jane, does this qualify as a map poem??)