a note to Hilary
Tonight there are no flowers but a girl’s kindness.
She brought them underhand: sometimes we kissed,
sometimes we talked with worry and honesty,
I who had been, she who would be a student.
(We painted part of a dingy room together.)
And now as pink clouds permeate the sky
I would rather meet the unreflective dawn
than sleep and lose a jewel, our goodnight kiss,
after which I walked home. There was no unkindness.
Today there is no lightning but a girl’s blindness.