There is where the child wearing blue jeans drowned. There is where the sidewalk buckles. This is how skin grows back. This is how the roads roll over, make new lines across your hands. Some maps wait their whole lives for something to happen.
Some people trace the same route for years.
The mailman is never on time. Some months never end. You wear them like a tattoo that no one can stop mentioning. I think the inner thigh, the damp knee pit or between the toes. Tattoo a compass on your chest.