landscape

my fingertips follow
the topography of muscle and veins
like mesas rising from the desert of your skin
sweeping down the valley
to the canyon bed of my sex

you portage across my hips
as I scale the precipice of your back
pausing to lick the limestone crevices
tasting traces of chalky fingerprints
left by other climbers

I pitch my tent
in the shelter of your gluteus medius
making camp against the elements
drinking coffee from blue tin cups
watching thunderheads roll in and away
to storm on other fronts