The signs, my dear, are there:
Notice how he is standing
In shade and you in sunlight,

And see that snow-capped peak
That hovers over you
Like a dunce hat? When it melts,

As itm ust, who’ll be dry
And who drenched? Your white dress
Is all grace; but that tux—

A lotus blooming beside
Some scrub. And make the shadow
Cast on his cheek by his nose:

An arrow heading straight
For your temple (and not, I think,
To worship). You, meanwhile,

Are leaning toward this blur
At the frame’s edge—
how should
I know? A cloud of gnats?

The photographer’s errant finger?
No, dear, that’s no person;
Two figures only are present:

Your groom, smaller than life,
And you, brilliant and tall.
No, no, no, I assure you:

I am not here at all.