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Adrienne Rich - Twenty-One Love Poems XVI
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XVI
	
Across a city from you, I’m with you,
	just as an August night
	moony, inlet-warm, seabathed, I watched you sleep,
	the scrubbed, sheenless wood of the dressing-table
	cluttered with our brushes, books, vials in the moonlight—
	or a salt-mist orchard, lying at your side
	watching red sunset through the screendoor of the cabin,
	G minor Mozart on the tape-recorder,
	falling asleep to the music of the sea.
	This island of Manhattan is wide enough
	for both of us, and narrow:
	I can hear your breath tonight, I know how your face
	lies upturned, the halflight tracing
	your generous, delicate mouth
	where grief and laughter sleep together.
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
	 
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