No two countries are the same,
and before Easter arrives,
their boundaries will shift,
again, from war or politics
or the slip of a copyist’s pen.
Or will be found a new animal,
or a race of people will be acknowledged,
these maps will read like stories.
Or someone will invent a cross-staff,
a compass, or a nocturnal.
Or the discovery of precious mineral
or spice will inspire accuracy
in the maps you desire.
Where does that land end?
Does the sea surround the world?
I cannot know. The Pole Star
wanders like a guard
looking for a place to nap.
Sometimes it settles out of sight,
and I pray the Little Dipper
to not disappear and for Spain
to be where it was
and always should be.
You can play your trumpet and hope
angels echo you home, but often
there is no horizon or boundary
to discover. The world spins too fast
to be transcribed.