I saw her sorting linen

in the curtained half-light,

I saw her in the hall of dreams,

now she is gone to the satellite.

I saw her fingers move on a pink guitar

I saw her tape recorded necklace

and the knuckles of her bones

light up in phosphorescent rooms,

I saw her care with the broom handle.

I saw her bright ribs heaving

and her valentine split,

saw her cheekbones lit by a rash

as she watered the hyacinth.

I take out yesterday's trash

with glass-scratched hands

and watch her oiling her chariot,

I know she goes with a headlamp

to paint the caves that howl in the night.

She could drape me in the cloth

she casts away, I could be

her sudsy whirlpool, I could be

her monument in marble

or her charcoal steed.

I see her passing among the other women

with her flower clenched like a locket,

I gather the keys to release her

from a passing cloud, weeping

at a series of doors that only I know.

We sprawl in separate sleep

on the parchment of a silent rhythm,

only mapped in dreams to make

its noiseless ink ravished

in the sink of touched ethereal gears.