Still Don't, Never Will

I was raised up from an imaginary town
and jostled awake.

I was carried
in the ink
past unnamed rivers.

It happened under weary stars - all of it -
under comets
without names.

It sounds romantic:
years,
winters,
decades.

Firsts and seconds.

But it's just simple:

A cartographer's
lazy dream
of blue and red;
marbled terrain
spreading north
where the railroads thin.

I saw what I saw,
and I knew what I knew.

But I didn't see much,
and didn't know enough.

    Still don't. Never will.