On the phone, her voice was like
the yellow bedroom curtain one imagines
at a seaside inn, filling and settling,
brushing the sill, turning dark veneer
with Monica was never eye-to-eye.
Engaged in earnest talk,
I'd see her look at something else
a cornice or a chandelier.
I learned from Monica to kiss
with eyes closed tight from fear
her lazy eye would roam, and how could I know
if her object of affection was a jet-trail
scudding to oblivion or me?