I Could Read Him Like a Map

We all have one. A map into our ideology. A Map into the easement of a nonpossessory piece of property that one man holds, and another man holds, but not really.  A rag-eaten shawl as map of skies and skies. Moths and graveyards. Do not come ravished with despair. The night crawls up the sky like smoke. I could sit still as ghosts in the middle of the woods. Wild grapes and their bitter berries. And six of the outdoor boys who had never been invited inside the house. Couldn’t hit the ground if all six of them fell. You can strip anyone naked and you will probably find a map. A map that only exists of ink on skin, and the tattoo house is across the street from the bus station.