Directions Poem by James Mills

Who folded my map
before I'd even taken bearings?

I've tramped roads just
because they look like ways
I should go.

These creases are
unseemly foldings.
Who folded this map?

This mountain.
Was it meant for me?
See that river?
I can't swim. Wasn't taught.
Ought I to cross? Plunge under?
With this weight?

And deadends.

Who folded this map?

Slide it into my pocket
for its all I have.

I'll follow the smudged lines
and guess the way.

Or I might just shuffle off the page.