The next morning,
you may see a soft tension
rising just under her skin, a muscle
pressing against clavicle
and wandering, like an orchid’s
faint vine, to the base of her neck,

or find that the steel in her eyes
has lost its radiance, dissolved
or submerged into the ocean
that resides under retina,
so that you may wonder
whether it ever existed at all,

or catch her, breath
slowed at the heartbeat
of a washing machine or
rocking pulse of a grandfather
clock, equating her veins
with the tenderness of an
empty space, a light reminder

of last night’s sweet insomnia,
even as the moon, exhausted,
extinguished a bedside
candle, and withdrew into shadow.