matins

by louise gluck

i see it is with you as with the birches:
i am not to speak to you
in the personal way.  much
has passed between us.  or
was it always only
on the one side?  i am
at fault, at fault, i asked you
to be human - i am no needier
than other people.  but the absence
of all feeling, of the least
concern for me - i might as well go on
addressing the birches,
as in my former life: let them
bury me with the romantics,
their pointed yellow leaves
falling and covering me.