swears it into a pact
of night with night,
and her mark on the other.
The map is no lung
—she breathes it;
nor the country, [a] border
—she makes it real;
nor the city, [a] heart
—she makes it beat.
If she had them
—map, country or city—
they’d all look the same
when she wakes them
from their dream.
If she did not have them
—dreams—
life of stars beneath the sky, and
—breathe her—
she barefoot,
—make her real—
naked of sun,
—beat her—
dressed in moon.