THE COMPASS

You never knew you needed
Meets the postcard-perfect
Vista you revisit in a fever
Dream of searching a
Swiss village for a surfboard,
As in a Brian Wilson ballad
Gone wayward, warm
At its core, like an Alp
That turns out to be a lump
That turns out to be a body
That must be sleeping
Because it is breathing.

Since the compass exists
Who could resist its
Algorithm—defied or deified,
Determining where you go—
Taking your time as though
You have all the time and
Finally arriving at a
Likely spot just before
Closing and finding
Yourself puzzling over a
Map that, it turns out,
You hold upside-down.