What Is To Be Done

All the maps of Asia

All the rivers, pulled up by their root and drained back into some

sky

above you

There is no use for this, to be placed hand by hand back into the

ground

Or parceled out piece by bloody piece

until nothing on the map remains

except a name at the edge

faded with (r)age.

Where could we meet then?

(After the world is burnt out)

under the excrement of some sky.

All the archipelagoes of your body

connected by this thin thread of hope.

I can trace it from point to point

with a finger. I can name all the entrance and exit

wounds

a constellation of grief

of longing.

What would we name it?