Ordinarily, the sun swerves the time across,
Slowly. A change of light may move the shadows.
Here, shadows turned the light:
The living room – in her absence, a strange epithet –
In which we filled in silent conversations
Like crossword blanks,
Where once she sat, she drew with a cigarette
The grey area: that my strength always lied
On the further side of frailness.
And from her, I only inherited cheekbones,
An empty decanter, and a tremendous
Love of weakness.