Poems on an Envelope

I jotted some quick verse down on an envelope I had in my car one night.

1.
In backalleys I wander
which, in this town,
is a challenge
—we have no backalleys

The moon is gibbous
were I sitting how many thousand miles to the east;
tomorrow in time,
the moon would be full

But from my alley, here,
now,
       I cannot tell if it is waxing or waning.
And for as long as I sit,
it shall never be full.

 
2.
In the act of mapping a territory
it ceases to become wilderness.

To name this
would be to destroy it.