Poems on an Envelope

I jotted some quick verse down on an envelope I had in my car one night. 1. In backalleys I wander which, in this town, is a challenge —we have no backalleys

The moon is gibbous were I sitting how many thousand miles to the east; tomorrow in time, the moon would be full

But from my alley, here, now,        I cannot tell if it is waxing or waning. And for as long as I sit, it shall never be full.

  2. In the act of mapping a territory it ceases to become wilderness.

To name this would be to destroy it.