Migratory glossitis, they call it,
Provides me a map
To search for you.
You were predestined,
A recurring X
Marking the spot
Of a continent lost
Every seven to ten days
And replaced anew
By fresh formations.
What a strange tongue.
Even my oceans are impermanent.
You could sail over the edge
As Columbus feared,
Disproving manifest destiny
All the while.
Still, you'd reappear
Like a ship out of fog,
Horns blaring,
And I would cast your anchor
Until the week is out.
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