New Maps

The daughters of the compass rose
reject the corners of their box.
They invent new directions to point to.

I live in a city of six quarters.
On a territory that is not a map, a map that is not a globe
halfway to a pole that doesn’t point to the Pole Star.

Daughters of the compass rose,
point me to justice. Peace. Freedom.
Point me off this map,
out of this trap.

Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside