GPS
by Andrea Fitzpatrick
We studied the bird droppings on the lamp post and debated whether they should be included in our cartography.
He agreed nodding: Leave regression to the surrealists. They’re all dead anyway.
The definition hung between us
The construction of canals and breezeways
Bird shit is impermanent; I’ve spent hours
Trying to ascertain the meaning of “map.”
Auxetic. Repeating. The sky.
Trying to scrape it off my windshield. I agreed then.
We discussed the possibilities
Through various artifices all the while
The priest counting his gulls over eye
Always lost in the form of a coastline.
The subject of impermanence rose: Don’t tell me
That we should include it.