Because In Mapping Becomes Them

There are empty spaces yet on the map. Lands so strange
they literally float in a marvelous confusion of fog, and no 
one will ever lessen them into line, renegade cays plucked
from some other world and left to meander through the ash   

of this one, glowing mirrors strobing epileptic above giant 
outboard motors as they ramble about the quilted badlands
revealing secrets of the sun’s surround, puzzled, in scrabble
over sink and sand, ciphers tucked away in a world of days.

Jeffrey Little | Growing Up Perhapsatron
Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)