I read a book once
about a man who slept
every night for twelve nights
with the bones of saints.

On the thirteenth night, an angel took his eyes
and set them before God.
The man's face cannot decide
just what it is he's looking at.

I closed the book and considered.
This seemed true enough to me,
and plausible at that.
The room was quiet.

Down the hall I could hear
the low tones of a man's pleading.
I though to myself,
"She will not go with you now."

And when I went to the window
perhaps ten minutes later,
I saw the trail of dust your car had left
on my quiet piece of map.

Later, the one to whom you spoke
came to my bed. She told me
she would never leave. She wove
flowers in her hair

and spoke of building the house of dying.
I don't know where she gets her words,
but she spoke all night, and while she spoke
I dreamed of a place

like the place I live in now
and of a girl, like her, and when I woke
you were a hundred,
a thousand miles gone.