the mapmaker

ironically the

mapmaker has lost himself. the stars

swarm shining in the unfamiliar politic

of an improved

zodiac, the compass pin

spins irresponsibly and moss

grows on

all sides of the oak now. before he was even human

he was able to locate the

insignificant speck of

an egg on the

vast red continent of

the womb. how could he now be

so lost? his hunger

decorates the dark woods with

a fire he puts

rabbit on, nostalgic for the days

he petted them. twigs in the fire

curl like atomic tracks. the forest

feels abandoned. Fall roams through, a

mute landlord inspecting

property at night.