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Adrienne Rich - Twenty-One Love Poems XIX
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	XIX
	
Can it be growing colder when I begin
	to touch myself again, adhesions pull away?
	When slowly the naked face turns from staring backward
	and looks into the present,
	the eye of winter, city, anger, poverty, and death
	and the lips part and say: I mean to go on living?
	Am I speaking coldly when I tell you in a dream
	or in this poem, There are no miracles?
	(I told you from the first I wanted daily life,
	this island of Manhattan was island enough for me.)
	If I could let you know—
	two women together is a work
	nothing in civilization has make simple,
	two people together is a work
	heroic in its ordinariness,
	the slow-picked, halting traverse of a pitch
	where the fiercest attention becomes routine
	—look at the faces of those who have chosen it.
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
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