The Mapmaker

Where land begins we know the sea must end:
this bargain tessellates the light to dark –
I mark our place – it’s here we draw our line.

My art can catch time in a net of space:
I bend, into a line of ink, the earth’s slight arc.
Where land begins, we prayed the sea would end.

I grip between my finger and my thumb what’s mine.
I carve our minds to the shapes we know. I shift
our place, something dissolved where we once drew our line.

Stone relents to water, air and earth amend
our borders, edges, inclines, pitiless to signs:
where land begins we hoped the sea would end.

Light carries pasts to the future, binding us to time
its secrets nestled in the changing coast, the quark,
starlight, fires, eyes: I cannot draw that line.

Like picking dreams from sleep, none are assigned,
divided, pinned or stopped still by my marks.
The sea begins. The land begins to end.
I trace our edge. Somewhere, we draw a line.

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