The Map

There is a map in my head
lanes like dark threads
where dust settles, forms pigments

that I slough years later with pumice stone.
Fragments of cells clog the drain
run through the throat of gutter

into subterranean sewers
that crisscross my city
like the map in my head.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s