The Poet Visits the Denver Public Library with Their Beloved

It is their idea to peruse the maps—
the cuff of their sweater, rocktrumpet

pink, not warm from Denver’s summer-acting 
winter, but my wrist chaffing against theirs.

I expect to find nothing on Dearfield.

Think Greeley, look for maps of Weld County, 
but they move toward the areal maps: C-E.

What they pull, plastic-sleeved and glossy 
under fluorescent lights, is a 1975 map

of my ghost town. What little remained 
on the site, tiny black smudges against

uniform gray. From the flimsy printouts 
taped to my bedroom wall they recognize

the reservoir, the stretch where residents 
bent down in wind-ruddy dirt to retrieve

water, walk it back to the settlement’s 
yucca-flourished banks. They drag a finger,

jewel-less and clipper blunted down Empire 
canal. I watch their pointer’s pad smooth

rumples from maps’ protective plastic. I 
would follow them anywhere—even in

my own city. I would study the maps 
with my attention only on their steady hands.