Issue 18, Spring 1958
The movement of my body when I wake,
Hinge of my arm, the shift of hand and throat,
Reminds me there was something for your sake
I meant to do, something I have forgot.
Yet, rising from your dark to know me still,
You take too long to tell me what it was,
Labor that I alone could not fulfill.
Meanwhile, I see the morning mold your face.