for Julie Fay
She’s in a room full of letters, dressed in white
amidst proliferate papers, the exploded lace of sheets.
Her hair froths white, her pale eyes chill, as when I first
saw her. Under white trouser-legs, her long feet
are bare on the stone floor, swollen with heat.
Summer follows summer since the first time
I stood in her crepuscular bedroom
awaiting acknowledgement. The dim chime
of a blue glass clock caught her attention. “I’m
exhausted. Come at six tomorrow. Knock
downstairs. I’ll hear you. The heat makes me sick.
Debarrass me of that ridiculous clock.”