Making roads on maps shrink (or how to travel a lightyear)

Everything now, my dear, will come
your way.
Every last mote of dust
Every last spiraling arm
of an island universe.
Every part of kingdom animalia.
Every last plant wilting in submission.
Every nymph singing herself hoarse.
Every lyric thoughtfully written
at the tips of our swollen tongues.
Every square inch of milky white
skin as of yet explored.
Every moaning stream.
Every upended dress.
Every wasted day spent in a field
of tall grass.

Of decades.
Of decades in the making.
Of all the possibilities
and outcomes.
Of all the ways God
can punish a man.
To have you locked
away in a mountain.
Every hand grasping at air
and coming up atoms.

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