The Temple Glass

If you sat beside her bed and watched
the woman sleeping, what  would you find?
An afternoon, perhaps, when she broke you
with a word?  Or just her face distended
somewhere in a mirror of her own making,
oblivious to the touch of your fingers
on her temple?  And if you stood outside
and watched them though the window,
what would you find? A woman perhaps,
lying beneath white sheets, and a man
with graceful fingers, touching her temple?
Or just nothing at all?  Just words, dust,
darkness, a piece of glass, a graceful hand,
and a man making patterns on a mirror
of his own emptiness? Just emptiness?
And if the mirror broke, the woman woke,
what would you find? Would you claw
the window pane, and crack the glass,
until she beckoned you inside?
Would you pass your own reflection and sit 
in that same chair and wait for her to sleep?
Would you come to the temple glass
and make your mirror in the dust?