on my compass
and the compass I palm
is your body
and I ignore the moss markings
in the forest,
then suddenly
cedar branches sprout
needles around their spine
like spruce,
and spruce sprout
stocking caps that flop
like hemlock.
I turn circles
into the brown knot
of your eyes,
my lips tracking
blond edges
of your brown
knotted hair.
Pointing my needle
to your true north,
following only
the quivering force
to find my way,
leads me
sixteen degrees
off.