Wind plays the spy,
opens and closes doors,
looks behind shutters—
a succession of clatters. I
know perfectly well
where you are: in that
not-here-place you go to,
the antipodes. I have your note
with flight and phone numbers
for the different days . . . .
Dear one, I have made the bed
with the red sheets. I’m your
Penelope, our dog
the dog who lay
on the deep pile of dung,
lifting his head and ears
when after ten years
Odysseus approached him.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 4 Number 8, on page 42
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