if they remade the world from my memory
they’d find it small, but finely detailed
only a few hundred square miles
of empirical knowledge

all the places I haven’t been
would be vast fields of empty space
peppered with monuments
I’ve only seen in photographs

these backroads, which twist and bend
along the stubborn railroad tracks
might have them scratching their heads
as they draw up the blueprints

every brick and corner captured
by this distracted aperture
until it all comes to a stop
beyond my usual exit

trees and buildings up ahead
teetering on a cliff of understanding
clinging only to the grounds
of my assumptions

as for me, careless confusion
as they map along my shoulders
place my head squarely on top
and send me along

down this road and every other
which might outlive my memory
past the vanishing point
of an infinite horizon


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