Taprobane
The fish-tailed folk who fringed the maps of Taprobane of yore Were under the impression that the city-dotted shore Of this new isle they gestured to was absolutely real, Since its magic bays were guarded by a dragon-costumed eel. And was the world to Alexander stretched out like the hide Of a funeral drum in Babylon where Greek ambition died? Some might allege this ancient view is almost how we see This flattened universe where A runs parallel to B. We still are blind to colors in our demon-haunted night, Like Phoenicians who thought blue was but another shade of white. So how will maps be painted when we limn the hills of time? Will the rivers of eternity be puce or rose or lime? Will maps be viewed through prisms? Will we scan them with our eyes? Will they be in four dimensions? Will they mention liquid skies? We’ll never know until we know what wisemen always knew, That maps are just constructed things, like 1 + 1 is 2.
I'm no poet, but loved yours.
I love that final line! And also the image for the poem