Mapping this broken

whole parchment, garden
in faded brown ink the fields
hedgerows washed green

splash blue and gold
for finch-strewn sky
on the singed edges

of expectation, scratch
black or red for burning
smoke-gray shadow

creeping crossing the land
to cloud and bruise
and topple even castles

drawn in perspective
naïve, a blind future’s
relic

I’ve been poring over this beautiful book of maps. I wanted to explore the idea of how one might map an inner life, but got this instead.