Map Book.

Thumbed thin from years of use
your pages are kneaded dough
held up to the light
like a journey on its last prove,
translucent, good to go.

Your spiral metal spine
has slipped a disc or two
can neither sit nor stand
that’s neither bent nor true.

All the places I have been
are like a web of nerves-
roads that go to roads
until the turning circle
brings us back to words.

Anthony McKeown

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Anthony McKeown would like to hear them.