I look round the cluttered
icons of your room:
quilt, photo, stuffed bird.
On one wall, the self-portrait
you labored at these two years
since you broke with your lover.
The new self. It
nags me with its hard eyes,
its simple gaze. Completing it
freed you apparently,
to other subjects, for
a dozen new sketches are tacked
on another wall. A nude
lolls on some cushions; a
winding roadway seen from above
pierces the countryside
with a big S.