A silent film of snowing

My wedding dress lies on a desert island.

The desert island is on TV, so there’s always

some other conflict going on.  My biggest fear:

heat’s out.  All the models stop being beautiful.

I begin to pick up loose change: bedroom to boredom,

the vague glint of paperclips, a comforter that looks

strangely human.  Everything that kind of takes. 

Years later, I imagine a real pink rose in her hand.

Then that ache I ought to feel.