There is this place
I go with
Out you where
God forgets to dust
& the dust
Collects in
Wayward corners.

There is no map
Because path is
A word
In a foreign
Lexicon I have
Not picked up,
like journey &
direction &
motorcycles with-
Out riders on
Islands without
People. In this

Place without
Paths, when
machines
Crack against
Coconut trunks,
No one notices

If the tree
Makes a sound
When it falls
To the earth
because no one
Is there when
It splits in two.