There is a part of me that can’t explain
Why I don’t see you when I make the bed
A better place. Unoccupied, of course,
By armies of the night and model men
Who pose in airbrushed attitudes, but me,
I lurk there, looking down, on rumpled quilts
And foolscap sheets, when percale would have done.
A foreword and an afterward, but you
Escape the text of time, the asterisk
I loved, for which the bottom of the page
Could not suffice. Erasure. Foot notes. Grace.
A sequel which the star declined to make.
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