Adam Clay
Study in Cartography
for Rebekah Lewis
Water meter covers made in Lincoln, Nebraska, sewage-pipe covers
from Decatur, Illinois,
the sweat of dogs mixing on this mapof a city where silvery things glinting
on the ground are not broken glass, but confused teeth
and gravel. Geography seen from sidewalks—lawnmowers
half-way under houses—handles showing—the map’s
northern border. Before today,
moons cut in half were
just mile-markers for knowing what day of the month
it was. Now—they’re part of the diagram to the street where a porch
bends under the weight of the words caught
inside a girl for a year.Rain gutters are singing—
no—it’s birds stuck inside them;
and when a map is finished, the cartographers stir, make coffee,
pack their duffel bags, and sign their names
in each other’s blood on the closest dusty hardwood floor.