We draw our maps in darkness,
get lost and trip on fallen signs,
detour like wingless birds
into night’s black holes.
Feet as heavy as our hearts,
we wait for morning’s widening light
when trees gleam and lean apart
for our passage—and where the road
shines ahead for a day,
we follow the fickle light
of dream again.

—
Robert S. King, a native Georgian, now lives in Lexington, Kentucky, where he serves on the board of FutureCycle Press. His poems have appeared in hundreds of magazines, including Atlanta Review,  Chariton Review, Kenyon Review, Main Street Rag, Midwest Quarterly, Southern Poetry Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review. He has published eight poetry collections, most recently Developing a Photograph of God (Glass Lyre Press, 2014).