The line that divides me from you, from the city is here:
on a map, bordered by rivers, ridges, rumors of crickets
in forests. As I trace this line, I can hear you there,
from the other side of the wall. Here: my palms, have it
etched with weathering, hands trembling violently
like tremors waiting for a seismogram to become
a poem, or letters written in bad cursive,
or with sharp edges, wrecking connections
of roads, pipelines, streetlights. Intense
as I may from my core, however, I create
my own cliff, I make it so high so I can
never see you again. Nobody is at fault.
Nobody cares for the falling body.