I will write this word on a wall
you may know well
but in these late evenings of the year's fall,
or in the quiet of distant church bells
you may hear it again
once I'm gone.

Of course I know you
and that you are beautiful,
but I have grown tired of beauty, weary,
shaken dutifully into a metal trance.
We sway, but do not dance,
and you wipe spilled water
from the countertop.

I am speaking to see--no, I
speak to hear-- that's what I meant,
"the railing out on the deck is bent,
by a stone some sparrow or
squirrel must have dropped."

My eyes are wet--can you not
see them wide with the dull ubiquity of fear?

You straighten my tie.
The light beneath the door is streaming in.
A colorless cold settles on my skin
and you are not there in front of me again,
dusting the phone with a dampened rag.

How many years have gone,
trampled under our brittle vows?
Shall I hide among the faceless stars
or shine pale in a grey dusk alone?
We are home.
I am not angry, I am just alone.

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