Ferruginous means red and tastes
like cinnamon. We draw
maps with spices. I trace
a border along your jaw
with salt’s roughness.
I see your eyes
as a divine country
of tides. My spine
is alert when the wind casts
me in waves, as an illusion
of a winged thing
when all I want is
collision. Let us keep
our gravity, this perpetual
gasp and rise, lit
by the flame. Tell me
the ways north and south,
tell me what is
beyond this reverberation.
You’ll never
stop singing—