Magnetic north is always on the move,
looping its slow deep subterranean loops
around true north which it eludes
like an errant partner in an Arctic dance. Whoops –
gliding now at forty k per year from Canada
towards Siberia like a planchette on a Ouija –
anyone would think these shifts might derange
a home-bound salmon and rearrange
the map for pigeon, turtle, snow goose
or the coded alphabet inside the honey bee
dance; it all seems set to confuse
but fails. Blood hears more than its own euphony
as the sliding behemoth in fits and starts
quietly adjusts our compasses, our hearts.