Climbing out of vivid scenes,
coughing an incoherent word
in the pillow, I woke, thinking I heard
you move. It was a dream.

This bed is wide empty earth,
a landscape devoid of intimacy.
Are you leaving me?
I've been expecting it.

Are you leaving? I know
it from signs in the way
people charge through the street, deranged
by heat, the narrowness of the road,

and the thirst for consolation.
Your sleep is transparent
and deep, without feeling.
Outside, faces belie a preoccupation

with death. Hurried, magnetized,
they drag the pavement into their lives.
Your sleeping hand avoids mine.
You're already planning your goodbye.