I keep returning to that moment, one 
day at your kitchen table with the sun
slanting in through the glass above your sink.
You stood before me, brushing your long hair,
stroke after stroke in the astonished air
while you talked of nothing, and I sipped my drink.

Then suddenly you bent your head, and threw
your hair forward in a bright fan to show
your beauty in a simple act, at once
casual and contrived, while I sat there
like some stone figure in a stone chair—
such blatant beauty required a response.

But I did nothing, though my heart halted
in my chest, a small, numb, exalted
animal, until you tossed that golden wrack
of hair to settle once again upon
your shoulders and you smiled your wan
smile and I recalled myself, and smiled back.