Remaindered

She sat and wound a tress around a knuckle,
looked through a cold, familiar pane,
skin candled to a darker tone. The long
and desolate earth stretched out and out

to where there were no hills; toms slipped
in tarnished snow, and gray melt ran
from gutters, slid from statuettes,
pearled down the tips of saturated leaves,

glimmered on weathercocks. He would not come,
Not now, not ever. Not in this old story.
He gamboled madly on the moors? Not hardly.
When those white Cupids moved, then he would come.