It could be anyone, the one waiting somewhere for you to love her.
You wait in a dark station, the trains arriving and leaving, knowing nothing of her.
Everything is a welling up, an unhurried dance spinning and dipping,
like the verses of a song repeating â€“ singing like a hungry dove to her.
She is the cycle of the yellow heat at noon, and the shiver of sweat at midnight,
the phases of the moon, and then the moon. And there is nothing in the sky above her.
She arrives a red-feathered bird in winter â€“ as startling as love,
and as inevitable as the last moments before you lose her.
Colors change, and leaves fall; every vehicle departs and returns, its passengers exchanged. And every one has within it something, but not everything of her.
Smoking a cigarette and watching the dawn, you know that all things will die and be dead
â€“ as brief and unknown as everything that follows. She comes again and again, whichever
way it moves her.