Between her fingers
the plucked stalk of your brainstem
petal by petal in the empty air.
Between her toes
Tigris and Euphrates divide
and multiply. She loves you.
She loves you not.
Perhaps you are the pinprick rain
on the sheer face of an autumn lake.
Perhaps you are snow.
She is dreaming of crossroads
and you are the emptiness.
She is playing with dolls
and you are the mad muttering.
She is gossiping by the well
and you are the strewn fieldstones,
lidless eyes of the desert
waiting for rain. Her indecision
is delicious with cunning.
The mountains heave. Your leaves shiver.