Newspaper is floating
in a puddle by the heart-carved birch
reminding me of our sixth grade geography project
when we made that map of Canada
by tracing the coast off a globe and then copying
what the textbook said was Ontario
what Quebec, and whatever those other provinces were
Remember that we soaked our map with tea bags and
burned the edges the colour of deserts
with the matchbook from your parents‘ dresser
and when we were done with everything
buried that page in a tin box
in the soil by the sentimental tree
Maybe, someday, someone will find that tin
and think what’s inside is real.
(I found this poem in a canadian newspaper, which was laying on the floor in our apt. Liked it at once. It is from Tim Mook.)