Every night, no matter where I am
when I lie down, I turn
my back on half the world.
At home, it’s the east I ignore,
with its theaters and silverware,
as I face the adventurous west.
But when I’m on the road
in some hotel’s room 213 or 402
I could be pointed anywhere,
yet I hardly care as long as you
are there facing the other way
so we are defended in all degrees
and my left ear is pressing down
as if listening for hoofbeats in the ground.
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