To me, the landscape of  the body is the land-   
scape of every uninhabited place.    It’s a map
that reads like some paragraph evening held in
place by    humid hands.  For every uncharted
vein, a      poem is written    for the tongue that
taste like      the wind,  or the wrists; a painting
in longitude, or leg.    These are things  I think
about when        go out drinking—a collar-mine
flower, a    centerpiece in  high-vaulted stucco
nights when      star chandeliers    glitter above
tobacco clouds.    And I sometimes know what
to say when I      crane my noodle  neck in mid-
laugh, when        my ivory  incisor/canine moon
on an oil canvas is      complemented      by art
collectors, flamingo con-men, and tourists alike.