I’m a mapmaker, your cheeks are hilltops, your tears flow like trout streams, they descend contours and join the rivers’ pilgrimage to the Gulf.
I’m a fiddler, you’re the drone that waltzes on the ridge where squirrels bark and owls echo.
You are the full moon I cannot see as the rain tears my eyes.
You’re the side yard that wants to be mowed, and I just want to lay in your dampness, and watch the mower rust into Sunday.
You are the guitar I saw at the auction, your spruce swells as the dealer takes you to fondle your tobacco sunburst.