of their names from always younger mouths.
my past exists in locked-up images.
a registry of resin and sand.
on an atlas as big as the world.
Measure, says the book of maps.
the art of meter and time.
Were the dogs visible on that spit of land?
the surveyor in his hotel?
measured the slowness of the way?
Fate is not set down on maps.
for the world as a thing.
which I compose in my image.