This Lack Of Maps
John Grey

No map, merely instinct. Blue water,
morning correlation of light and sky,
no guilt, no regret, nothing.

Warm on skin. The best of it is made.
Death enriches the land. Pain makes
the foliage that much greener.

Being alive is a series of kept promises
to touch dew on grass, crumple oak leaves
between the fingers. A map is ignorant

of this. It longs to get you places. But
the tanager’s sings, you’re nowhere.
You’ve made it where you’re going.