Space

Below me, lives
Mr. Lee,
to my right is a bed.
Above, the moon,
full, round, incandescent.

To my left, two thousand miles
away, is an old bench I cried on,
twenty years ago.

If I walk ahead,
I will reach a memory.
If I turn, I will reach a flower.
All places I go,
I reach home.

Every map is a poem.

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