Waxwings flock to the backyard tree
And swallow the white berries,
Ignoring the tent caterpillars that feed
On leaves. Between them,
They pillage the tree.

I sit like a statue, watching,
And when the stars come out
There is nothing
But the look of things.
Even in sleep we struggle.

In morning light, as plain and bitter
As regret, we face each other
Without adornment.
Between us,
What will be left?

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 8, on page 41
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