(in memoriam Henry Treece, 1911-1966)
The edges stay forever white.
As the key might say
No one’s been there yet.
The peripheral will stay
the migraine-blank of sight,
the margin of fatigue’s regret.
The map grows wider year
by year; unclipped, it overflows
the complacence of its origin.
The purchase-price has been
hour-tall and lover-close
and hostile as Mercury’s atmosphere.
The walrus explodes through
ice, lolling outside discovery.
And the dragon riding the squall,
cloaks and hides at the explorer’s call.
Monsters quarrel the mapless sea,
black waters altering to blue.