The end of the pier is the end
of the world. The slope of the slide

is endless, is a chute into hell. The roads
that ring your neighborhood are castle walls

fifty feet high, and every day you walk into town
with sextant and astrolabe, and a brave farewell.

And now you've grown. Or you have not: the edge
of their bed is a teetering cliff. The end

of their glance is the space between stars. They call
to you over miles of their room, stretch lazily,

the monster that lives at the edge of the map.
They call. Wait. But wait. Will you come?