ELINOR PUSCHKAREVICH
----------------
RETIRED

Your figure grew distant
in the slow afternoon.
The rain became sad
behind the window;
from its blank transparency
a silence emerged
which showered the ranch.

Then I remembered:
the smoothness of your forehead
in my lap;
and the smell of coffee enveloping us.

The horizon grew dark
when you departed;
reflecting in the glass
your deceptive form
in my bed of silver.