Given a comb of
 tortoiseshell, I would
 cross your hair of still
 nightwater. I would watch
 your face fall wide and tame
 beneath dark eyes. Given a
 map, all crackling paper folds, 
 I would leave it 
 on the hutch, with every 
 careless intention. I would 
 guide you 
 to guide me 
 to the places where all borders
 disappear.  I would cast my reel
 into a midnight lake. I would sing
 to you in every key.
 I would ask your ghosts
 to lift their feet 
 and sweep beneath their seats.
 I would watch your face
 fall wide and tame beneath 
 dark eyes, given you.



 10 may 01
 Madison