Escape| Jon Ballard It’s late when you pay a visit. Beside you, lamplight spills out onto An open book of maps as on a dream Of perfect order. Here are thick borderlines, The circles and stars of cities, interstates And rail-lines running in parallel Then diverging like the little bones Of the hand. The master of the house, In the kitchen fixing tea, must have Been planning his departure when You arrived. It’s either he or the kettle That’s whistling now, as you Consider his escape route—foolishly Marked in yellow highlight— From plate 41 to the empty Olive-drab frontiers on plate 43.