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,