The bed, still warm
(For M.)
The bed, still warm,
still holds on to the smell of you;
your imprint on the pillow
my holy Turin shroud,
while you, now mirror bound,
applying make-up,
remind me of self-portraits
by Rembrandt and Frans Hals.
It is funny and quite humbling to admit
that lipstick, eye-liner, mascara
bring out your beauty more convincingly
than all my poems ever will.