My Queen

My queen reigns in a window
full of winter sun – becoming pale.
Every New York love
must face the same
conundrum – bring it out
and prop it up and feel it grow
as warm as flesh, and very soon

it cools – unblessed:
gets the wan December look
my queen has now. I’ll keep her,
though: her fadedness has uses:
shows me how experience
evolves. She stands like
an eternity of beige

forgetfulness: she lifts her hand –
grasps nothing. Old dusty satin
and whatever sort of stuffing
my forgotten notions
of her may once long ago
have been. As clean
as unremembered sin.

.