An Exercise in Sadness
Steichen's roses have faces in them
I've seen on a few sad occasions.
Occasions for sadness can be found
anywhere. Now I'm aware in this
intuitive way of the absence at my
back. How do I explain it? I lie
in bed, alone. I turn over to my side.
No hand moves between my shoulders.
No lap molds itself to the elbow
of my knees. The smell of me,
me alone, rises warmly from
under the covers. I toss and turn.
I turn wearily towards the lack of you,
hold still as if to hold you still.
published in The New Yorker
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