Maps by Tristan Rogers

This secret-space, between the
Beams across the lights below
And birds' nests, roof-tiles, stars:
Monsters stalk the insulating foam.

Maps, spread out like a jigsaw
In chaotic non-tesselation,
A tucked-away means of
Storing mental rations.

How to make the whole world new
When tracks revolve like voles
In wheels that thieves keep
To slither back with keys?

Lakes pour into other lakes,
Roads caress each other's junctions,
Heights are making contact over
Origamic mountains.

There is no algebra for this,
No GPS up here,
Nothing granting magical peace
That one could wear.

Just pieces put together
In whatever way one can,
An ever-working-out
Of the lay of the land.