She came in from nowhere,
she knew not how or why,
or where her strength lied.

She stayed a lifetime there,
in the upstairs of his house,
a house he built for her,
the bed was there for her to lie down,
the chair,
the vanity,
the way she knelt on her knees.

And every once in a while she'd disappear or retreat,
and step back in through the open window,
She wouldn't say goodbye,
she wouldn't lie for long,
or cry,
but just fade and then return like a snapshot in a dusty room,
on a dusty wall,
she would never talk,
never call.

Her shape would constantly change,
becoming something more or less what she was,
over his thin-rimmed glasses,
or,
with another thought,
camouflage for elegant landscapes around her.

At night the room would seem to open up or heave,
a great sigh,
and she would go in search of gardens and plantings,
in search of someone half-asleep and dreaming.

He would feel her warm cream-colored shoulders,
drawing hot breath on the nape of her neck.

She could do anything,
was free to explore,
dance,
leap for nothing,
she could do anything here,
would never grow old,
only more beautiful with each passing day.
And why?

because he wanted it that way.