Unified Theory

Going toward my own unified theory of beautiful women
After another spell of snow and sleepless
Turning back the mirrors to the walls.

It isn’t me I’m thinking of, but of the old woman in Manayunk
Who wreathes her face in the flavors of spring,
And of your daughter, who paints the sky above her eyes too blue,
And of Betty, who would not return to us
Until her head had been gilded with new hair.

It’s the beautiful women who place their faith in faces,
Who move through gardens stealing factors of themselves,
Who linger for the purposes of being seen,
And are remembered, in the end, for the langor

Of their linger. For my part, I always ran
Through rooms, and misappropriated my hair,
And admitted no news from reflecting pools. I took the rose
For the rose and not for how it promoted me,
And in that way I saved myself from being loved
Excessively. Tonight the ice swoops from the gutters
Like slender stems of glass and the room is a spoke
Of shadows and the hat my mother gave me is hooked
Offhandedly across a frame. Time having its way.