He tells me the mountains
are to the North,
the bedroom gets Southern light,
a real-estate gesture or two
and we are through
the apartment.

“Well-lit,” I say.

“Actually,
southern light is weak,”
he marks.

“Right,” I manage
to stifle a giggle
(In Brooklyn,
North is 125th St.
and South, Bay Ridge.)

He mentions something about a river,
a damn?

So cavalier
I should not be
back up
in the air
I was intrigued
by the crop circles
like a thumbtack
finds interest
in a map.

I’ve been here now,
scarcely six hours
waiting for you
to storytell this corkboard
into a heart
I’d never puncture.

A place I would love
if you alone told me.