Then the favorite dress is empty forever.
A flower on a blouse withers in a bureau;
Scarves lose her scent and gain another.
The Persian-lamb coat settles with a sigh
On a black hanger.
A mysterious whorl appears on her mirror.
Oh, a piece of dust with hair to show you
Turns up later!
You are appalled, tears flash in your eyes,
And your heart, knowing nothing,
Walks over and yells at a pleasant photograph.
-- published in The New Yorker, September 6, 1969