The Cartographers

Wander inward.

Find the precipice

that divides your-

self from the friend

and stranger.

Meander along that jagged

edge. Marvel. Once,

the sun was close.

An intimate orb, living

in our air, sleeping in our peaks.

Then, there was the telescope.

I lean into

my chasm, spine crooked

into a question mark. Hairs rise

at the echo.

Echolocation insinuates

trails a brasher mind

would take to claim

the unknown me. Vastness

dwarfing the space between

our star and our soil.

We Map-makers, humbled

before the cliffs above a coastline,

sketch to the scale of

everything.

Ink stained hands tremble

at the truth of distance.Still,

I'm soothed. A reclusive body,

exhausting in it's vacuum,

can prick our skin with freckles.

Just as it always did.

first

second