You come from catalog, cable-knit sweaters,
Ralph, Tommy, J and crew—
the sea’s mist, the sails full of wind, calloused hands
and the ropes that bore them.
You come from rolling hills and shallow valleys,
worn paths of wanderers—
perhaps there were castles, too.
You come from crude maps, compasses pointing east,
shores left behind—
the desks of eager cartographers, the caravans of tired merchants,
the court jesters passing time.
You come from what you came for:
Bodies kissed the color of almonds.
Full lips. Anchored shoulders.
And I am the one fighting windmills.