dane lyn

Sticky Kisses

accordion folded paper. 
creased in the wrong 
places. awkward, aging 
paper, a Thomas guide 
never printed and placed 

on a gas station rack, a 
map to immaterial 
coordinates. when I ask the 
robot in my phone to take 
me there, 

I get I’m sorry, I don't 
know the 
answer to that 

I get here are links to five 
articles on cardiac 
anatomy 

I get I'm having trouble 
finding that for you 

it's not hidden very deep 
underground, plastic 
playground shovels with 
broken handles can dig it 
up, a dashed line of small 

sticky kisses mark the
road, a trail of
goldfish-dust-fingerprints
lead the way, and
handprints wet with paint 

mark the spot. I ask these
intrepid explorers to
explain how they found it, 

I get you showed me when
you sat down and listened
to me 

I get your breath
whispered it to me when
you hugged me close 

I get I didn't need
directions, your smile told 
me where to find you