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,
the rip of the swan. Warning.