Reading

stomach like the ordinance survey map
he runs his fingers around
the circles of the hillsides
pages and pages and pages

Francis,
I'm not a map

and her skin cools and tessellates
into the history of Argentina
or the speeches of Winston Churchill
or the life of Marilyn Monroe
and his hands warm
the leather of her arms

Francis, I am not a book

and her thighs are string
reaching from the neck of a double bass
and her lips are cymbals
and her eyes are gospel

Francis,
I'm not music

You are.