I

The poet
[the cartographer?]
gazes
at his
calligraphic islands
surrounded
by a tideless
sea,
an archipelago
bereft of
wind,
fauna, flora,
and the misty breath
of foam,


II

thinking
that
perhaps some
straying bird
will bring
to the solitude
of the map,
to the empty reefs,
a quiver,
a flight,
if it is possible
to fly
over such
aridity.