350/365: As Though All the Maps Have Already Been Drawn

the carpet on the floor of a New York Holiday Inn

the carpet on the floor of a New York Holiday Inn

It seems it should all be geometry,
what with math and grammar and physics.
We look for patterns and we make maps.
We look for designs and designers.
It should all compute.
Sacred geometry's Tree of Life
is a finely tuned spindle
or a stalled pendulum,
reality described in lines and points,
silent and still
so we can marvel at the order.
Here we have Wisdom, and here we have Mercy.
Here is Justice.
We have this map and so many others,
and still
left or right, yes or no, north or south:
we are confounded.
We look our aggressor in the face,
we describe it precisely,
we point at it,
we are even able to locate it to a particular room,
and yet we look for other patterns to wedge it into,
as though it makes any difference,
as though we can dislocate it from one complete puzzle
to complete another that matters less
and make new things be true.
We wait to be told what to do,
as though none of us are mapmakers,
as though all the maps have already been drawn,
all futures lost and already sung.


I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.