You lie here wide-eyed
as if the icon on the wall
came alive-the small hand
of the woman in red robes

	resting on your forehead.
	I wish I could be happy.
	Tomorrow the squirm in my blood
	will seem insignificant.

The window checkers the bedspread.
Meandering sleighs of light
pierce the dark mirror.
There a woman sits up on the bed,

	pulls up the blinds,
	watches the trees
	fill with morning.