I had a dream about you,
she said in the long naked morning of the bed.
He turned to face her, one eye open.
You had gone missing, it was terrible.
She said. And stared emphasis.
He smiled, then briefly laughed and closed his eyes.
Everything goes missing, he said.
Your slippers, the Roman Empire,
your pet goldfish when you were eight,
the digits of pi after 3.14…
His eyes were still closed. He smiled
stillness into her, from his blindness.
We are different species, she said.
Everything missing is here, is terribly here.
And she looked at the morning of birds
in the window, losing and finding each other
in flights that seemed sentences of a sort,
in the blue wish of space to hold something.
His blind hand went up and down her long leg
as an apology or feint or Mesmerism.
The morning has such naked long legs
because it is a Sunday. He thought. How wonderful
it is to go missing or forget, he promised
her in his terrible way like a general
whose only battlefield was sheets.