Bethlem watcher, night rider, I found your cartography scrolls, saw your insane calligraphy penned small and scrawling like the tree branches against the now-gathering darkness at five. I read your Old World maps, traced the sea monsters with my fingernail, read in their visages what I once read in a tale poorly translated from Czech folklore. In the mouth of the night the hero arose. Did you believe that meant utter darkness? Or a yawning blush to herald Phaeton and his reins of reason? I thought the former. Anyway you wouldn’t know what to do with reins of reason if they were manacled to your wrists. Your maps aren’t Pangaea I don’t recognize these archipelagos. My belly is flat again but the scars of childbirth run faint and blue like your inked rivers. Draw me a J pen me a C scrawl my S like I wrote your name in the dust and scrubbed it out with a fist. Men painted schooners & sea monsters in gilt and scarlet on old maps to fill in the blank spaces. Beribboned seagulls. I’m trying to place your otherworld. Here’s an approximate coast of Tyre, Joppa, a scribble which could be a nod to Charybdis. The least you could have given me was a skin coracle for when the tide went out, a line for my reel.