so that while he stretches to keep fallow the scape in
the spread of his fingers, she will seed it—she sees his
earth is young enough to receive. She knows it will be a kind
of fieldwork the land of him will take to, knows when she
comes in close enough for the sickle of her cheek to shape
to scythe, he will have worked his land hand-flat so that he
will welcome it when she names his slap Love and we will
call her Mapmaker in her hand-scripted topography.
Finally, the impact of cartilage on bone will sail them.
And when the boat of her body flings them to landfall,
in that inky dark of exploration turned discovery, they will
rename the place Not Not-love and think it navigable.