March 1

 I could stare for hours
at her, the woman stepping
out of her bath, breasts
bare, towel around her waist,
before I knew she was you 
in that one-bedroom in 
the Village sunny and cold
that Friday we woke up 
slowly & our breakfast table
arranged itself into 
a still life with irises
in a vase and a peeled orange,
espresso cups and saucers
and The Necessary Angel by
Wallace Stevens, a little violet
paperback opened to page 58:
"the morality of the poet is 
the morality of the right sensation.
"

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