The Poetry Marathon

The map is not your body:
Our functions are not
linear; our tangents
derived from simple
meanings — a sign or symbol,
Greek or Arabic.

The map is not your body:
We cannot solve ourselves,
but where we intersect,
I am integral.
You are my secant.

The map is not your body:
Mercator’d here, its
curve is lost — I trace great circles;
search for some meridian between our poles —

I must remember:
The map is not your body.

The moon swings in the sky like a great bronze bell, and the east rings with its light.
Minds, like drops of dew, reflect the sky; when clouds come, the moon remains.
Trapped between mirrors, we could see eternity but for our own heads.

Sing night’s green murmur, rainfall
rattle on rooftops and throb
of thunder, cloud-silhouette
moon adrift in dappled wrack
of rushing stars and cornfields
whisper: endless Missouri

I wander rabbit-haunted meadows waiting for the tick-fat moonrise.
Dew-soaked shadows stretch stealth and melancholy beneath an ancient oak.
I carve myself into the roots and whisper: I’m not me…I’m not me.

Hello, everyone. I’m looking forward to participating in the full marathon.