Waxwings flock to the backyard tree
And swallow the white berries,
Ignoring the tent caterpillars that feed
On leaves. Between them,
They pillage the tree.

I sit like a statue, watching,
And when the stars come out
There is nothing
But the look of things.
Even in sleep we struggle.

In morning light, as plain and bitter
As regret, we face each other
Without adornment.
Between us,
What will be left?

Introduce yourself to The New Criterion for the lowest price ever—and a receive an extra issue as thanks.

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 5 Number 8, on page 41
Copyright © 2019 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com//issues/1987/4/estrangement