Bet the first cartographers

never foresaw

today’s scroll-able grids

deconstructing the planet—scarred

strata, clear to the fiery core. We forget

 

everything here strives
to survive at a tilt. Your belief jars

against mine: a land mass of hurt

amid firebrand accusations,

broody days of circling,

 

circling. “I trusted you” implies

Now, I don’t. Let the record show

each of us palming the latest version

of whatever world we spin—

upending angst

     

while defending the right to argue

whether the issues are real. “Please,

tell me more” invites

dissent, a gift to be cherished, practiced

together, wherever life is at stake.