Lately, I have found myself
staring at the pattern on the curtain
and wondering if you, too,
would have found the face that stares out
Arcimboldo-like from the trashy
William Morris-lite design,
its nose a swirl of leaves,
an eye some kind of gnarled fruit,
the eyebrow a twist of vine;
and then I know once again
that you’re not really there
to answer stupid questions like this
and I should get up and properly
set my face to another day
without you.

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