Love

Twice I awoke this night, and went

to the window. The streetlamps were

a fragment of a sentence spoken in sleep,

leading to nothing, like omission points,

affording me no comfort and no cheer.

I dreamt of you, with child, and now,

having lived so many years apart from you,

experienced my guilt, and my hands,

joyfully stroking your belly,

found they were fumbling at my trousers

and the light-switch. Shuffling to the window,

I realized I had left you there alone,

in the dark, in the dream, where patiently

you waited and did not blame me,

when I returned, for the unnatural

interruption. For in the dark

that which in the light has broken off, lasts;

there we are married, wedded, we play

the two-backed beast; and children

justify our nakedness.

On some future night you will again

come to me, tired, thin now,

and I shall see a son or daughter,

as yet unnamed -- this time I'll

not hurry to the light-switch, nor

will I remove my hand; because I've not the right

to leave you in that realm of silent

shadows, before the fence of days,

falling into dependence from a reality

containing me -- unattainable.