Cartography
Your hands are maps in which I find myself.
Twin rivers flow across your palm;
I trace them often with my fingertips
And imagine two lovers, sitting on the banks,
Beneath the palm trees,
Wondering how well hung Gilgamesh must have been.
And tip to tip their dark fingers
Fan against each other,
Much as ours do
When I, lost, not knowing where to go,
Reach across the uncharted distance between us,
Unfold your folded fingers, and begin
To trace upon the routes
That I must take.
� 2002 Tony Whitt
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