Trafika Europe 2 - Polish Nocturne
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42

45. False Maps

Long flight without alarm. Carried by clouds

to a secluded spot on the lone border

between three worlds, he lands. And then at night

he strokes the alpine glacier, puts his tongue

to Jungfrau’s breast, because a great green river

that talks to him, that squirms and spits up foam

now cuts across the city. Of three worlds

we know but two, this third is fog, concealed

inside your locket, in a moldy nut.

So with his tongue each day he checks the fate

of those who’ll sleep upon the river’s bed,

each day pretends he’s tourist, scholar, art fanatic,

each day buys a map and scans it for

a spot, a printing error, a false country.