You gave me your country of lightly-dusted skin,
of pink parts, of back roads,
of underpass, of Decembers, chilled,
put outside the toasty coats keeping us warm
for three fossil-fueled years.
You guided me there. I guided you to the barrel
of my nomadic chest, heaving, stumbling, out of breath,
on new legs like fragile gods
made from fingerprint-laden glass.
I kissed the leaves of your country.
I ran naked through the meadow of its hands.
I tangled myself in the warmth of its soil.
I wrote a phantom poem with my finger in the peach of its skyline.
You guided me there, and I made myself a home.