Reading Goldberg on writing–
a phrase every few pages snags 
my sleeve and I’m off—
treasure hunting for the living map of my life.

Turn the page— I am northbound,
on a slow alabaster ship to Alaska,
salt and hymn braiding together
into a sky too wide for doubt.
All this from a paragraph.

The next line takes me 
to the attic –dust stitching light,
poking through a box of letters—
my grandfather’s careful script
leaning toward his Julia,
every word a pressed flower
still holding its color.

Who knew that reading a book
was a kind of traveling—a boarding 
pass tucked in the margin,
a staircase pulled down 
from the ceiling—every page
a door waiting to be opened.