[maybe you are...]

Maybe you are Rhode Island.
Maybe your hair trickles through my fingers like sand,
or a salty handful of the sea.
Maybe your body is smooth like dunes,
rolling, almost white in the sun.
Maybe your eyes are pebbles I pocket on the shore,
and the roads I follow everywhere.
Maybe your hands are the waves,
tickling my feet, beckoning.

Maybe you are Massachusetts,
and I trace the curves of your body
like back roads on a map, or in my memory,
sliding my mind’s eye over each hilltop,
each empty palm, or bony hip.
Maybe you are mountains in the distance,
wrapped all around my horizon.

Maybe you are home,
something I call warm, or safe.
Maybe you are a house,
woodstove burning,
chimney sighing soft grey smoke into the night.