Shadows
It’s Sunday morning – early morning –
and already you are gone.
The shadows of night – still unyielded
to the sun – lay still and soft across
my bed, holding me in arms that
should be yours.
The shadows are more faithful.
I cling to your moist pillow,
needing it to be your heart.
Our Saturday night love is a
lukewarm, melancholy dream.
I stay under the covers, hoping it
won’t flee and follow you, who cast
it off as quickly and unceremoniously and
happily as a blanket in Hell in July.
It’s Sunday morning and the
shadows are more faithful.
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