I watch him read a map
one finger on the Guadalupe
counting vertebrae
down a winding spine
at half past six
when morning
still feels like a promise
to keep

his hands survey the map
leave its paper tender and undressed
rivers dripping in color
eyes greener than his
fatigues than my thumb
than the forest printed
without a name

his eyes study the map
steady like stars
knuckles broke but happy
the left corner dog-eared
you can’t imagine
how many miles
ride the length of his
one fingernail

this is how I love him
without hands
breath moving miles per inch
warm against the chill
without a map
the world waiting
in his back pocket