First, bare rooms in all directions
after effort, after relinquishment,
straightaway diminished,
words uttered,
now dust floating
in rays of light.

         Highways through
         and up, bending by craggy
         deserts, then morning coastline
         snarled with seaweed,
         and later, edges of timber,
         black from last year's fires.

Is where I am
more climacteric
than where I have been?
Within me, an ancient map,
a fixed north, forever
leading to the divine proportion.

         Polar drift
         and my mother's recall
         misrepresents the knowns;
         another evermore to record.
         GPS stranded,
         gone wild.

Meantime, ink spills
on the papyrus,
you are here
but you are really not
because the map is ragged,
has reassembled with different lines.

         Is where I am
         more climacteric
         than where I have been?
         Within me, an ancient map,
         a fixed north, forever
         leading to the divine proportion.

The Pacific is the legend;
it says, you are here at this edge,
you have both the land and water,
your future is unknown
but your direction is sure.
Gulls cry, galaxy clusters spin and shine.

On this journey,
you are making an atlas
you have many maps
a muster of possibilities,
all may be well or not
and you are between worlds.