So always with our words, we try to locate them
using preposterous maps — like, say, broad lines
on the heart, white threads fringing on shoelace,
footprints on the sand, patterns of spider's webs,
positions of the planets — or the one in our palms,
intricate lines made more intricate with fat slaps,
handshakes, high fives, or lovers' tight hold while
walking through a light rain in a city street early
at night — imaginary maps for imaginary spaces.

Raised boundaries like walls or falls do not limit
space, lest define it more: here is here, and there
is out there: more rooms to plot new inventions
of the dogmas of travelling and adventure. There
are countless rivers: wormholes to cross, crosses
to transport, branches to retrace, if not to rub off
like laid paths before us, horizons carved invisible
even before we're born. A plan to nowhere: maps
explained make half the trip to such non-places.