I lived here once. I know
which streets went where. I ran
where this lane starts to go
to the left, where it began
to carry another name.
So I am not impressed
by maps. It's not the same,
your sketch. I think you messed
up my reality.
Where's Archer? Appleton?
The dogleg at du Pres?
I know now what you've done,
you've gone to see what's there.
You stood on my home ground
as is. That wasn't fair;
taking a look around
alters the memory.
It warps the past. It preys
on what we say we see,
It relocates what stays
to house, then to maps,
till we avert our eyes,
as though all routes collapse
below misfigured skies.
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