I met a man

along the road

who thought he knew

which way to go.

Certain was he;

he knew the path.

He had a map.

He’d done the math.

“Your map won’t help

you now, I fear.

Past the map’s edge

the world turns queer.”

“I’ll find my way,

be sure of that,”

the man dismissed

with words he spat.

When I returned,

an hour ago,

I passed a car-

cass in the snow.

No doubt, twas he,

the certain man–

hit a blizzard

in burning sands.