The doors I kick in lead to mirrors
of dead skin and salt:

when I leave, silent, in the morning,
it will be my farewell; the thread
finding the eye of a needle,

slipping through. If I stay
the ink will dry and stain
the sheets

with a map of the road
we walked in peace. The woman I see
in your mirror will follow me down
the steps and out the back door

where a rhinoceros waits
just beyond the dim light of dawn.