Crossroads

Unclasping bracelets and slipping off rings,
nothing could occupy more careful importance--
no quarrel, no eye, no feelings, no footsteps--
she is the mute, the statue, the stone,
shocking in her coldness.

And footsteps? What footsteps? That which is
in her chest, trying to escape her skin, blurs
all vision and mutes all sound. She turns,
hopeful, but he is already gone, a ghost,
a glimmer, a flickering pale reflection.