by Robert Creeley
She stood at the window. There was
a sound, a light.
She stood at the window. A face.
Was it that she was looking for,
he thought. Was it that
she was looking for. He said,
turn from it, turn
from it. The pain is
not unpainful. Turn from it.
The act of her anger, of
the anger she felt then,
not turning to him.
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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