in someone's mind, she is affirmation, a string of images hung in a private dark room

There is no breakthrough
but to smile,
no connection now
but to shake her hand.

In this sun-drab living room
Sunday morning,
she stretches back sighing
and says she is loved.

Is it by you? You almost ask,
but her hands clasped,
snug with one another,
urge your mind to saunter elsewhere.

In someone's mind,
she is affirmation,
a string of images hung
in a private dark room.

What he knows you must know.
You have seen her body rise
from the tub giving everything,
even flaws to the light.

But if she graces
no more than this hour,
this parceling of sun,
she is still enough:

her hair is drying uncombed
in curls on her uneven neck,
her leg that tilts the rocker
the room's only quiet stir.

[Michael Miller, 'She', from The First Thing Mastered]