Where are you?

The moon has risen over the curved, swollen lake,
and the sun has fallen behind the trees;
the leftover drops of an afternoon summer-storm collect in my shoes and the hem of my skirt.

It is evening, and I
am alone in a room that grows darker with the darkening sky.

Perhaps in some exotic encyclopedia destination--
Mongolia, Java, Peru,
the Ukraine, the Sudan--
but no, you have less Atlean aspirations.

I know better; I know you revel in the company
of the loud, the generous,
the hometown barons who never think beyond the borders,
beyond the next year's crop.

Far too bitter--(am I)
and I ask the unanswering purple sky,
Why am I less interesting than they are?

Why seek a riot, an orgy, a crowd,
when waiting are a candle, a book, and a servile wife?

And this is the seventh night you have slept beside me,
and the seventh evening I have spent alone.