On the map, my fingers of their own volition trace where you were when you left me and went on your own road. Perhaps they remember you more than I do.

It surprises me that this memory of touch is greater than that of memory of knowing. A friend told me the other night when I was down and blue, that I appear to be riddled with bullet holes, through which sunlight pours into my emptiness. Perhaps to light within me maps of places where we were once, you and I when we were still: We.

Spaces have just remained the same, it perhaps still is 700 miles as the crow flies from me to you. But inside all the hollow spaces that I now live in, it's another infinity, even another time.

And of that Stone Age are these heliographics My fingers obsessively trace on various clear maps, As if they see something I don't.

And when I try to remember you, in fragmented images That flutter like feathers or migratory seeds on barbed wire fences. I sense in my open palms, try to touch those dances which our bodies knew how to without our minds deciding.

And sometimes in flashes of rolling thunder I see how my fingers held your waist as they danced with you, in that far away country, maked on the map of my soul; Which sometimes these fingers trace over again so surely for they surely know.

On maps, on the walls.

2001:12:02 11:30 Atlanta

I wrote this when my fingers wandered to that lake shore city on a picture of the earth at night that was taken from space as the sun was setting over the Rockies.