This Lack Of Maps

John Grey

No map, merely instinct. Blue water,
morning correlation of light and sky,
no guilt, no regret, nothing.

Warm on skin. The best of it is made.
Death enriches the land. Pain makes
the foliage that much greener.

Being alive is a series of kept promises
to touch dew on grass, crumple oak leaves
between the fingers. A map is ignorant

of this. It longs to get you places. But
the tanager’s sings, you’re nowhere.
You’ve made it where you’re going.


About the Author

Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review, Albatross, and Lowestoft Chronicle, with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock, and REAL.