Door in the Mountain: New and Collected Poems, 1965-2003

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Just waking up she didn’t remember what time of year it was, and couldn’t remember if she had a friend in the world, Oh thank God, summer, and she remembered last night her husband’s friend, the professor, that he said, Waiting is what we do, in this life, we wait. Visit This warm house, masculine; our old, 20-years-old hug; your gray eyes, that I trust. But our clear, perfect sentences, like money. No silences. Jokes, books, our friends . . . Why are you always the older one? Why am I a wooden girl, not friends when we meet? The other one, tough, dumb, kind, the monologuer, the strange one, with no house —after our first fight we didn’t have to have that fight anymore, or go away. Solid perfect waves break in and pull back. It was as if you shouted after me, “Can’t you see my death, can’t you see anything?” 174 door in the mountain ...