I found a map inside a tin box
Buried deep where the pine roots lock
Telephone poles stand like tall ships' masts
Holding wires against the winter blasts
The paper bears the year nineteen eighty-two
Ink faded blue on a brittle hue
Red lines trace where the city trains run deep
But here they cross where the dark pines sleep
This folded light burns on pine and pole
A subway ghost for a keeper's soul
Red lines pulse where the sap runs slow
Folded light in the afterglow
No tide chart here no buoy bell ring
Just station names that the wind will sing
Central Park West meets the deer trail cross
A transfer point for the weary moss
This folded light burns on pine and pole
A subway ghost for a keeper's soul
Red lines pulse where the sap runs slow
Folded light in the afterglow
The Fresnel lens catches the map's thin sheen
The clearest chart that I've ever seen
No rocks below no shoals to find
Just paper tracks in the piney wind
I tape the edges to the lantern glass
Watch the colors swim and mass
The Q train glows on a bed of needles
The L line hums where the red squirrel feeds
Nineteen eighty-two holds the night
The map stays lit by the keeper's light
Poles carry code through the spruce and fir
A signal passed from the city to here
This folded light burns on pine and pole
A subway ghost for a keeper's soul
Red lines pulse where the sap runs slow
Folded light in the afterglow
Folded light on the pine bark skin
The last train comes the day begins
I trim the wick the map stays true
Folded light me and you
