All the ruins on the map 

 

are not all the ruins -- broken lives,

for instance, or loves, maybe not

this one tucked tight beside you

 

in a salty Rockaway cabin, decayed,

sagging gray. Nor the one before,

left behind, nylon tent in sage

 

layered with dust -- let alone the one

alone on a Utah road, last glimpsed,

thumb up. Or the one dreamed

 

quite a ways back, when cliff water

dripped on clay made crude bricks

certain to crumble one day.

                              Timothy Pilgrim