he slept on the desk, in half-glacier grand
snow sweaters, the pine trees and cardinal birds, their throats
bright and ready! red, sloping down to his hands —
big and masculine, and knotted up from
writing her, sad long letters; when the day swept
to a small close, the trees leaning in, snow falling off and conjoining;
he slept on his desk, his head on the letters, the half-thought
things he meant, the books he read and the love that came broiling
out of him, alone in the shower, when she
wasn’t there.
poem: writing camilla
the last pavilion 