You put aside your book,
That transitory prickling down your nape
Making you smile, but also hesitate
Before you turn to look.
You know you always turn to look. The glass,
Too clear to falsify or complicate,
Can only show you what is taking shape
And wait for it to pass.

Whatever is adrift,
The dawn developing its apparition
Of hanging pastel silks, or something red
Spilt when the eyelids lift
Behind your palm, her palm placed lightly there,
The censored pardon you inherited –
The simple window stands by its admission
Of time and light and air.

By beauty and by fear
Pictures are conjured in that open screen,
Although it’s true the witnesses to whom
They happen to appear
Don’t always summon them. A thorn-snagged hour,
A cloud, a bird, flash there and through the room,
A face you longed to see, or leave unseen,
Flushed in its thwarted power.