epitome of regicide


There are six lane highways.
There is the aerial view.
There are overpasses piped out in baby doll curls and there are underpasses that just snake away.
There are off-ramps and empty weight-stations; utility turn-offs with gates poised in consideration.
There are perfect circles of turf and clusters of islands moated in sandy granite surrounding rounds cut out of a legendary green untouched by human feet.

There is sunshine that arrives from no particular direction that only a woman can know. The sky woven in a blue that is reserved for the Baltic Sea.
There are gray eyes looking at me from behind cat eyeglasses; smirking about a question that I will forever own.
There is silence and restless hands.
There is a word that begs to be defined.

and
I get a right-handed pass of an oversized atlas and a request to coordinate two uncertain points space.
This tool I have been given is robust but inadequate.
There are maps, yes, maps that burn red and a topographer’s favorite orange. There are silos spotting landscapes spreading tales grain of production, sparse populations represented in rounded bald headed icons, apple gathering in the Northwest, and the licking tongues of spilled ink in place of the oceans valleys.
but
the exact directions between where we were and where we are to be in not represented. I thumb back and forth as the landscape persists in mimicking idealized roads, built before I was born.


Address

The Comb Tree
42.316833,-72.656553
United States of America