The Whole of It
This first hot day, under an apple tree,
I feel you as a single drop of sweat
That slips along the middle of my back,
Along my spine, and traces me upon
Some magic paper that could take a man
And make him known, in no particulars,
Just known—as a land for its geography,
But where no valley, town, or mountain could
Explain the whole of it. I know, and yet,
This one wet fingertip of yours could map
Exactly what I am, and what might be,
And make each blossom hum above my head.
© 2001; originally printed in The Formalist.