I would wish minor miseries on you
if I had the power: in the morning's
cup of coffee the quick turn of milk
into a curdled mass, annoying as
a stiff hair under the tongue.
The morning after we made love, you paused
for an instant, while dressing. The thin fingers
of a wire hanger lured you into the dark
space between your clothes in the closet,
and you jumped when I laid an affectionate hand
on your shoulder. How delightful now
is such news. I could be that silence
on the other end of your telephone,
the shadow outside the door whose shape
you don't recognize. Instead
I keep myself at a distance, among the vague shapes
of grieving, a word
a good poet wouldn't use
at times like these.
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