and you know the street,

     you know the blizzard, and you know her,

the just-married girl,

     she is walking through the snow to the bus

with a shopping bag in each hand

     and going home to her honey,

and seeing herself in the window

     she models everything—

the red dress, the unornamented sheath,

     pumps, beads, belt—

 

her vision preserved in glass,

     the window trimmed like a bassinet

 

but she needs to move, it’s getting worse,

     the bus is pulling up so

goodnight, she says, goodnight to the glass, thanking God

     for the city, for the snow,

and all that still goes on when she is not watching

This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 7, on page 23
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