Does the map still enter your head
  like lichen,
  or the fronds of bracken here, aeons
   away from your hands?

In the painting of you,
  reading our poetry, the block of territory
on the wall nearest your face
seems like a twin gazing
down to see the marks
  scratched onto the pale
  parchments you hold forever by the light
to read their silent language.
She is always crowned
  with a topography which exists now,
only in my imagination.

If I could write your name in any known language I'd etch its letters into the wretched pavements here.

 As it is, I'm always scribbling
    versions of its form into the sand
and watching as the wind carries the grains away
     in silent eddies of black, grey and white.