an old map

made to a scale

of medieval anguish,

left behind after

the great conquest,

is circling now

over balconies,

over flowerpots

and lowered blinds,

gliding low

among the clotheslines,

settling now

and winding its way

down the door,

that old map

from yesterday

without a tense,

neatly folded and sealed

with fern dust,

lost and found

under the door

eager to take residence

among the papyri

of unspeakable mishaps

that we have inked,

despite ourselves.

2007

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