"Let’s begin here - at the skin. Pay attention to the story. A tale of lovers leaving port without words, with ships full of cargo, migrating from body to body, from flesh to flesh. This is a documentation of the human form: how we discover it, how we allow it to be discovered, how we love contours and knuckles and consume selfishly and sinfully - trying in vain to map out our primitive cartography without knowing what names to give the things that we love the most. This is how we discover language when we sail through it without a compass. Skin: two oceans colliding. My salt dunes. Your dimples like sand dollars. Our bodies tangled like seaweed. This is what you would find if you ran your hands over these bones in the dark and tried to turn me into Braille. These are the distress signals that our bodies know before we do. Morse code. Heat rising. Our skin, flushed. This is driftwood, and this our drifting. These are my hands on your hands. These are my poems on your poems."