This is the map’s edge, unknown, 
					      the fine toothed bone,
				    the chart in the sea’s chest;  
			  the last map, unwritten, unbuilt, trails on fine silt, 
		   a rose pink tone, saxophone, jazz dance, chance,
	  the long moan, no rest.
This is the join at the map’s crack, page; rock rage;
	 truth’s eye on the plate, the slate’s edge.
	      On the skin, the line, hair thin; the shoulder bone, the spine;
		      the wire of throat, remote, woodnote; the flight, the span;  
				  from feather to tip, the ache of wings,
					   bone sings
						    the rip of the swan.   Warning.