I sleep with double pillows since you’re gone.
Is one of them for you-or is it you?
My bed is heaped with books of poetry.
I fall asleep on yellow legal pads.
Oh the orgies in stationery stores!
The love of printer’s ink & think new pads!
A poet has to fall in love to write.
Her bed is heaped with papers, or with men.
I keep your pillow pressed down with my books.
They leave an indentation like your head.
If I can’t have you here, I’ll take cold type-
& words: the warmest things there are-