I traveled through every line in your face,
took plunges in cool stubborn lakes there,
nothing new was to be found though,
all had been said in so many ways before I did.
The lines were dry country roads, old
and not leading me anywhere,
the deep lakes too cold to swim in.
I couldn’t offer more than myself:
an unguided tourist lost in every direction.
I came home from a bad expedition,
with no photos to keep and remember you by,
the scars in your face and your bitter cold eyes; I
unread all the lines of your outdated roadmap.
I wrote this to see if the poetry is still in working order 🙂