We are laying out the world, again;
The lines which fade into the creased edges,
Their names retreating, giving up the weight
Of each footprint, collect at a fixed marker,
The mass called history compressed to a tight incision.

Divisible like a weakened thread, each
Has a beginning and moves beyond its limits,
A steadied hand spreading its width
Outwards, testing how far it might reach,
A game played with the eyes closed,

Which finds a town submerged under a finger, placed
At random, until names and occurrences acknowledge
Their common relation, and trigger a significance;
Often as minor as a sensation, a brief look of vacancy.
Finally, for us, it is the gravitation backward,

The retracing of absent footsteps as if a familiar hand
Forced us to turn unexpectedly, called us to an attention
Where the soil is dark with carbon, and any map cannot
Transfigure the wounds which worked it to the surface,
The changed light each channel would now open into.