Other city
–beloved capitol, mother of what I see when entranced I lie.
Your map my friendly book, streets to alleyways and boulevards
swept dark and light, shadow and glimmer–the yellowood
articulating a wind in its many-jointed leaves: branches I follow
to find lost keys, house of the elusive hidden room. There,
I go out and walk before dusk, in a summer of long light hours.
Though I know no one, nonetheless I am at home. The tobacco smells
sweet and dry. In the hearth, fine ash. Darkening, evening, still
the library circulates its books, and further on, a chapel, walls silvering,
windows holding a light I like to imagine as fire. At the door grow
heather and pansies, darkest purple. Of its silent household I am one:
there I was born and am forever let to lie in its familiar bed.
This has a kind of ancient feel to it and reminds me that I should write a poem about maps. I love maps. And this poem.