Journey, iridescence
Swirling on spheres,
Marmoreal maps in air,
Also there, in scale,
Are routes and destinations.
On sale in gas stations,
Ones stripped of depth
So they can fold,
Be unfolded, consulted
En route, have
Depth left out.
It seems round ones
Shrivel into their
Thousand dreams
And are gone;
Maps minus
Length and width
Never caught on.
I like the contrast between the joy and wonder of the poem and the photo it accompanies, and the little red letters and numbers at the bottom right. Maybe maps are stripped of depth and shrivel from so much folding and unfolding, but time stamps are forever.
ReplyDeleteYes, and Benny is taller now too!
ReplyDelete