terrains

We know too well the lines on our palms
Fork into branches and crawl to the back
Of our hands
Our elbows
Our chests
Our necks.
And I wonder,
How long would a wrinkle take
To reach the soft crack on that lips?
In one nod?
In one word?
In one gesture of the hands
Pulling my arm, gravity
Losing purpose
Other than that face
Drawing close to mine?

Hear me—there is no expanse
That want would not cross,
Not even the verdict
Of cartography and the study
Of weather and heavenly bodies.

Ancient men lived by chartering
The phases of things:
The moon
The sun
The seas
The winds.
Yet I still wonder,
How long would it take
For that face to turn to mine?
In one rotation?
In one revolution?
In one undulating wave
Of glances, awkward
In their quiet relay
Of messages better tucked
In the pocket to be read at home?

Hear me—these men have survived
Even the most solid fists
Of their smiting gods,
Of their own two hands.
Let us mine the gold in our earths.