<OCT2024>
Mountains of time map the gaps between your freckles
and ancient rivers carve by a journey of salt from the well in your eye.
You the bull lie cast in shadow from the hanging still cloud;
patient for the night wind to propel that stubborn little pall.
Only for a star to reveal.
When that great light finally beams;
your well will have run dry and your mountains will have risen.
For a map worn is a map used.