To find out where we were going and why,
we consulted I-Ching on the bus:
"The deep has been contained with wood
and made into a well. The plan of a town
may change but the location of its wells remains."
We packed binoculars and a magnifying glass,
so we could watch fields sweep past closely and start fires.

After a week, we'd lost all our luggage. We checked
into renting a car, got a room instead. We stayed
up at night planning to look at maps, watching
weather reports, calling information. Our window
faced south, so we never knew it was morning
until checkout time had passed. "This is ludicrous,
absolutely outlandish," we'd say when we paid again.

We made it home, after a month. We painted
each other's bodies and built cities we wanted to visit
on our coffee table: the hotel was a blue vase
the surrounding neighborhoods—Jolly Ranchers;
the museum—ice cubes melting in a ruby tumbler;
the night air—a bowl of mangos. Charcoal
blueprints paneled our walls, and we lost
the ability to ask if we were lost.

Volume 1, Issue 2, 2007