end. The word has always been there
that the woman has grown nonchalant
at its recurrence, and now
she seals it by writing him a letter,
the way she did with past lovers:
At half past midnight, with the noise
of cats making love outside her window,
the moon beams slide through
the blinds like fingers sticking out
to snatch the paper under her palm
on the desk. At the last line
she stops, rises to twirl the reed
of the blinds to shut the wild purrs
echoing in her ears,
push away the faint figures of light
threatening to throw away this closure.
All is quiet and dark now as she scrawls,
Wishing for your happiness. She marvels at how
the last of these four words brings sadness
to herself when she gives it away to one
she cannot have; how the word masks her goodbye;
how it always ties the beginning to the
