I washed a load of clothes



and hung them out to dry.



Then I went up to town



and busied myself all day.



The sleeve of your best shirt



rose ceremonious



when I drove in; our night-



clothes twined and untwined in



a little gust of wind.







For me it was getting late;



for you, where you were, not.



The harvest moon was full



but sparse clouds made its light



not quite reliable.



The bed on your side seemed



as wide and flat as Kansas;



your pillow plump, cool,



and allegorical. . . .





