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Fivefold Ledger of the Unfinished Map

arkayye
I write in the margin where the ink has already bled—
naming the river only by the sound it makes
when it forgets its source.
A gum-leaf curls into a question,
and I do not answer.

arqios
Stone remembers the weight of the mason’s hand.
Even in ruin, the lintel leans toward its absent door.
I catalogue the fractures,
not to repair them,
but to keep the record honest.

rkay
Between the lines, a chorus of moths
beats against the lamplight—
their wings spelling a script
no archivist will claim.
I let them annotate the dark.

arquious
The map folds in on itself,
coastlines kissing in improbable reunion.
I trace the seam with a bone stylus,
feeling for the pulse of a country
that exists only when the paper is closed.

crypticbard
In the last stanza,
I hide the key in a rhyme no one uses anymore.
It will take a century of misreadings
before someone speaks it under their breath
               —  and the door swings open.

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