I heard a promise where there was a thought,
idea claimed in passing as a tree
goes by a speeding window. She has not
declared a fact, nor has she given me
the right to hope that I might once more see
her angel face and devil body near
to mine. She walks away, a misery
that grows beyond, while I remain, a tear
that sheds though I do not, the shadow fear
on which a thousand little hopes agree
should be my destination. Silence here
is like the bleeding of an artery
        and grates the open sorrow of my wound
        like salt because I cannot hear her sound.

Originally published in Roberts Wesleyan College Journal for the Arts, Vol. III, "nickel plated and full of illusions" (1999)