|On The Eighth Day
another pilot down (Tori Amos)
In the desert she bore
water. Her manicured hands remembered
mine were beautiful in engine oil.
Every eighth day she came: seven days of silence
when all I possessed were memories.
Id hold my breath to listen better. In the end
no star is worth losing
a few hours sleep to see: the rescuing
dawn was more real than my solitude
in a land of mirages. Sand
swallowed what little imagination I had
left. Her aeroplane was only ever going