Two people are sitting at a table
in the afternoon, it is winter
and cold outside, dark in the room
She is dizzy and sad
from sipping the flat beer
of her own voice
He is like a stranger
who just blew in
she knows, if a man is sand
those who walk through
the desert are men
He is thinking of a stone
that flies in the dew
of the moonlight, an easy
thing for a sad man to do
I wonder if it was night
and they left together for separate
beds in different rooms
Would he think of her dress
falling down her waist,
or would she be in the jungle
making plans from the enemy's sleep
In a place like this, together,
looking into a table
wet from its own darkness,
What do they need,
what can they say?