Ilana Baer

Again the liquid map 

     unscrolls itself, 

          the distant murk of the mind

              now clarified and close, 

​

describing for half an instant

     foamy peaks, 

          criss-crossed creeks, 

              rippling canyons. 

​

Each new now 

     calls the others obsolete, 

          so that nothing in this world

              escapes revision. 

​

Sud-countries become 

     archipelagos; straits wriggle free

          of constraints; an abalone glow

              swallows sand. 

​

How many drafts 

     drain away in an hour? 

          How many proofs 

              laid out on old latitudes? 

​

Only tide will tell 

     when the driftwood compass

          aims for 

              infallible north.