She made him an omelet without breaking any eggs.
He held the intact shells in one hand, ghostly
As unbroken skin, hollow,
Blue as air.
“It is this easy,” she said, floating
Into the subway car.
He watched the doors close behind her, and the train
Scuttled like a scarab beetle through the dim tunnel,
Full of gold and white linen.
He told her, “I’ll love you for four thousand years,”
And she said, “Pass the milk.” The beads
Stood out on the empty jug,
Evaporating in sunlight.
She walked through all the rooms in his apartment
Until her face was behind every lampshade,
Fixed to the glint of every penny-colored minnow
In the darkness under the couch.
There is no hieroglyph for the way
Wind goes, its hands wheeling air
Over the windows, towards sucking stars.
In spring the trains ran late.
He bought a newspaper and the sun bled through it,
Spreading over the text, as if
The whole black-and-white world