The ghost of geography
guides me through the meadow
of tempting poppies
and Black-eyed Susans.
She takes my hand
through the electron ether
without the taint of contact
to poison our thoughts.
How do you tighten your grip,
with no pressure
between the topography
of our hands?
I look to my feet
to check if the path is tread,
and if the destination
is recorded.
Is there a tan manuscript
rotting on a shelf
or beneath the flowing sand
that maps our love?
She guides me through the atlas,
tearing pages from their binding
and breaching the bandwidth
of the bridge we emitted across.
-Robert L. Jackson
