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."

by David Lehman

Comments (1)

This poem is amazing. I was searching on the net and found this poem from a search engine. It kept me interested, and calmed me. I really like this. It reminded me of so many memories.