it is a constant struggle,
running trains to their edges and
withholding movement from cartographers/
whose only true love is
finding out

this movement;
nomadic sponsored dream
that denies being a symbol, or
having ever given up,
collapses on itself

pocketful of maps
but no stars, no compass

it is a viscous walk back and forth/
and as pacing substitutes
affirmative action, melting on the tracks
seems refreshing