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When I became a traveler through another’s grief,
When her face became for me a kind of architecture,
I could wander the halls, I could turn
The porcelain knobs and leave my evidence, I could
Be present, sit on the bare mattress, look at the sheets
Draped over the furniture, I could see that landscape
As the dust fell on it, I could lie down across the plains,
Stare at the crack in the sky, the crack circling the sun,
Long ago the sun went out, long ago the filament
Burned a slow orange and died, it does not stop the light
From completing its work, falling on things,
Falling on my hand that spins the globe on its axis,
It does not stop the light from pacing across the floor,
It does not stop the dust from catching slow fire in the current.