She watches the day blaze itself out,
sun catching fire on patches of ice
flecked, now, with salt. Too late
to do her much good. He called
from a phone booth around the corner
saying something about readiness
being all. With one arm still inside
his coat, he led her to the narrow bed,
pushed away her books—one of them his.
With her bandaged hand she lowers the needle
to the groove where Leonard Cohen sings,
Hey, that’s no way-ay to sa-ay goodbye eye eye eye,
the twang of his jaw harp sounding to her, now,
like a bed spring hell-bent on exaggeration.