what happened every night in the brass bed

    and every bird-heralded blue morning

    was something we could claim and keep and use；

    was， like the house， a place where we could bring

    our road-worn， weary selves.

    Now， we've a pause

    in a year we wouldn't have wagered on.

    Dusk climbs the tiled roof opposite； the blue's

    still sun-soaked； it's a week now since you've gone

    to be a daughter in the capital.

    （I came north with you as far as Beaune.）

    I cook things you don't like.  Sometimes I fall

    asleep， book open， one A.M.， sometimes

    I long for you all night in Provencal

    or langue d'oc， or wish I could， when I'm

    too much awake.  My early walk， my late

    walk mark the day's measures like rhyme.

    （There's nothing I hate——perhaps I hate

    the adipose deposits on my thighs

    ——as much as having to stay put and wait！）

    Although a day alone cuts tight or lies

    too limp sometimes， I know what I didn't know

    a year ago， that makes it the right size：

    owned certainty； perpetual surprise.

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