, , , ,

Like a mandala made of sand

you painstakingly shaped my

pieces into a whole

I’d never before seen


but just as the picture

begins to make sense

you cast me into the sea

with light ceremony


uncountable coloured grains

tossed on wild waves

already sinking

but somewhere


in a mind

a memory

a moment

an image existed


though it is not the goal

rather a map that lives

a land both formed and referenced

with each new breath


for time’s patience alone

permits cartographers to believe

in the fairy tale of their own accuracy


in truth

that river they plotted

has already changed course