Starting to prowl, little mapmaker
along the ridges, beyond the
dreaming grids

Losing sight of clouds is like
losing the image of sky
It cannot be just itself
it needs soundings and limits
coasts and entanglement

Each room has scarps
at 2am, the walls of doom
traced in soundless sound
the breathing of another dream
you don't wish for
barely normal and tracing
none other than the weird
placing of circular narratives
that build up in graphs, the daily mind
and tumble out, mixed up
punch cards, sounds of the sixties
compasses, protractors
spinning diagonals for the psychedelic brain
then waking in a clearing
looking for north again


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