Fog draping Monday morning pines,

Washed-out light, unfolding a little

Like laundry being hung out to dry,

The sheets still wrinkled with sleep,

Her silky things creased in the clefts

That were already damp with her love.

But too the empty arms of his sleeves,

Pants legs that won't be pinned down,

Her tears that won't dry any time soon.