No Printed Map

                        (in which on back, on stomach)


a safe bet, Cartographer. My done-
dear writ the bone-frame already,
your age of discovery spent.
        Between aubade and a rapid


eye, a room makes for stutter,
drop in façade. O for the love of — ,

        say I am most afraid of the dark,
        a lo-fi mutter and it’s just

you, plucking breath ‘til half-past


a chipped front tooth. My matins:
shine on the one who’s gone and
sure. One cardinal point—
that everyone dances to “At Last.”

I wouldn’t
                (if you even asked)