The Swan

No matter the hour
of night or day,
she's there — always
at one shaded bank
of the pond
or the other.
Always alone.
Once, it almost frightened me —
she was in the centre,
not a ripple on the lake,
not her mate,
nor another wading bird in sight —
so unafraid, it seemed,
of solitude,
so sure.
Imagine, desire gone,
no longer essential.
Not touch, perhaps one luxury —
memory — to sustain her.

(from Subterranean)