I could lose you, but I haven’t so far. I might amuse you, but I daren’t, so far. I could confuse you, but I won’t, so far. Would I refuse you? No, I say. I’ve chosen you, yes, this far from where I was born, faraway from where I woo you, using my hands to soothe you, meeting your hands. Now our fingers smooth out the view as if we’re stretching a canvas of a landscape back onto the land itself—but too big! but too far— we dive beneath its contours, everything blurs then you drop a clue, and the land reshapes; I pick it up, and we pull through, so far.