It

I have studied maps

and plotted the way from here to there

and even traced with a finger

a hundred roads and dotted trails

among ghost towns as still

as mirrors in an empty room.

It was not there.

I have consulted histories, of course;

and atlases; and written to explorers

of the dream; and listened for voices

in the night to tell me to "Arise and

go... a man will give instructions

later on; you will know him by his covert

air; and the suit he wears is older than

animals."

There's been no word.

Sometimes in the midst of business

I'll pretend I have to make an urgent call

and rush out on the street, pulling on

my coat as if in afterthought;

but always I end up here,

in the same old place,

making note of the same old fact:

It. It. It is not here.