There is the semblance of being cared for
in the white, made-up bed,
and in the women on the balconies
repairing the hems of their dresses.
Questions may be directed
to the man behind the desk;
a line has already formed.
When I arrive at dinner, I am expected
alone at the table beside the window.
There is no need for the pretense of books.
Snow slips the roof so easily
you can imagine what it is like
to have never loved. It was enough
for these things—bread and silver,
the winter trees in the ice field—
to be held effortlessly, casually
as an armful of flowers.
Return to Volume 6.1