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.

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