She places her hand on the table,
fingers splayed, and I am tracing
the shape of her hand with
my fingertip, as if it were a merchantman
navigating the harbors and bays
of a peninsular quintet:
where shall I berth? The cape of her
index, the horn of her thumb, the
shore of her slender wrist?
I am a lost captain wandering
from one ivory cliff-shelf to the next.