The Meadow 159 Atlas Brian Lutz This is a map to where I live. The path of migratory birds, the cannery and the sieve. This is a tumbleweed of thought, an acorn and a windstorm. This is the Tuesday of our lives hidden as the restroom in the supermarket. This is a hourling of wisdom, loose-legged as any calf born from any cow. This is a tent, dark, large as Arkansas, filled with cameramen who snap their flashes in the eyeless night. I think of stars made of ice. I think of a shoe to smash a wineglass. And I think of you. This is karma like a stone tarred to the tire. This is late-dawn scone, coffee, spoon and yawn—a single helix with a half-broken dozen rungs. Law school, fistfight, kids, fireplace, furniture, dial tone. I have been in empty places, spaces faded and weighted with feet foreign and friendly,
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