I am a man lost- circling, familiar,
will not ask the next one directions.
I’ve missed the forest-for-trees,
prefer to track game with strayed
observation. I’ve a telescope that
I look through the large end.
My canteen is strong, half-full,
what difference is west to east
what you’re centered. I’ve mapped
everything I’ve come across,
though it’s upside down and the key
is a poor, vague thing of reference.
Sometimes I head north where
the terrain goes downward infinitely.
Sometimes south, but there I found
a conclave of witches who chased me
three days through fogged swampland.
I’ve made a fire out of book glue
and bird feathers and rubbed sticks.
It’s amazing what you can eat trial by error.
When I journal under starlight,
I sometimes see the eye-sheen
of uncommon things who’re curious
of my being there. By morning they’re
in the wind and I’m flipping a coin to see
which cardinal point will lead me where.
A bearded man on a path once told me
there are better ways than this, but if so,
I’ve yet to find one.