invisible to her, he sees himself

suspended in the branches by the window,

entering this strange bedroom with his eyes.

Seen from the darkness, even the walls glow—

a golden woman lights the amber air.

He looks and aches not only for her touch

but for the secret that her presence brings.

She is the moonlight, sovereign and detached.

He is a shadow flattened on the pavement,

the one whom locks and windows keep away.

But what he watches here is his own life.

He is the missing man, the loyal husband,

sitting in the room he craves to enter,

surrounded by the flesh and furniture of home.

He notices a cat curled on the bed.

He hears a woman singing in the shower.

The branches shake their dry leaves like alarms.

SPIDER IN THE CORNER

Cold afternoon: rain spattering the windows,

the dampness spreading slowly like a mold

in the poverty of gray November light.

Another day of books and spoiled plans,

of cigarettes and sitting still

in rooms too small for us. How little there

is left to talk about except the weather.

And so we tolerate the silence

like the spider in the corner neither one

of us will kill. Yes, the doorway whispers.

But we will stay—until the weather clears,

the endless rain that keeps us here together.

SUMMER STORM

We stood on the rented patio

While the party went on inside.

You knew the groom from college.

I was a friend of the bride.

We hugged the brownstone wall behind us

To keep our dress clothes dry

And watched the sudden summer storm

Floodlit against the sky.

The rain was like a waterfall

Of brilliant beaded light,

Cool and silent as the stars

The storm hid from the night.

To my surprise, you took my arm—

A gesture you didn’t explain—

And we spoke in whispers, as if we two

Might imitate the rain.

Then suddenly the storm receded

As swiftly as it came.

The doors behind us opened up.

The hostess called your name.

I watched you merge into the group,

Aloof and yet polite.

We didn’t speak another word

Except to say good-night.

Why does that evening’s memory

Return with this night’s storm—

A party twenty years ago,

Its disappointments warm?

There are so many might-have-beens,

What-ifs that won’t stay buried,

Other cities, other jobs,

Strangers we might have married.

And memory insists on pining

For places it never went,

As if life would be happier

Just by being different.

THE LOST GARDEN

If ever we see those gardens again,

The summer will be gone—at least our summer.

Some other mockingbird will concertize

Among the mulberries, and other vines

Will climb the high brick wall to disappear.

How many footpaths crossed the old estate—

The gracious acreage of a grander age—

So many trees to kiss or argue under,

And greenery enough for any mood.

What pleasure to be sad in such surroundings.