at the far edge of earth, night
is going away. another
poem begins. slumped over
the typewriter i must get this
exactly, i want to make it
clear this morning that your
face, as it opens
from its shadow, is more
perfect than yesterday; and
that the light, as it
hesitates over the approach
of your smile, has given this
aching bed more than warmth,
more than poems; someway
a generous rose, or a very
delicate arrangement of sounds,
has come to peace in this new room.