Announcing plans to my sleeping lover
is no kind of revenge; instead, like the desert
I must change raiment in the chill of night.

Awake at last, he will find a strange landscape,
his old compass shattered, useless, his eyes
will stare on plateaus rounded, mesas pointed,

under a cloudless, foreign sky. Thirsty, he will
fall to suck from bottomless pools of dust, dreaming
of my wild wet, there, in dry canyons whose arroyos

have no source, wishing himself a postcard
with no return address.