When I saw your boot-print
glazed into my snowy stoop,
I thought, There’s a trick to this,
finding your lover
in the record of his step,
the bite wound
of treads.

Like a cartographer
pulling the brow of a mountain
up through her map,
or a paper-folder
creasing cranes in the
unhatched dimensions of the page,
I’ll unfold you
from the floor-plan of your feet,
see how you’ve thinned
like February’s clouds,
collapsing into
a single sheet
of sky.

Your body is a track
pressed into winter’s crisp vinyl.
I can’t hear you
in those grooves
even as I spin their dizzy
vector, trying to make them point
home.