I think you don’t know me
I’ve drawn maps, but you think it gets you here
Can’t you find my fine lines, my mountains rise
High and rigid, a clear line dividing -
My seas swell, gentle crashes in storm blue
My sun shines, an octagonal interest on the left
All copper plated with sharpened spokes

I want you to see what maps used to be
Skies in seas, fish from trees, the hints of me
Come to me in ancient ways, shed science
Discard the practical, the business talk
A map used to tell a story, and I’m
Not your destination