We all lie down to small deaths nightly,
disturbed by dreams, nightmares of despair,
seldom waking to full wonder of each other.
Of late, I note, your heart has become
too attuned to dull weather, sluggard Time,
but grant some evidence yet of residual life.
To kiss and withdraw seems the all of love,
a making which might ruck immaculate sheets.
So soon to grow weary of passion and desire,
coldly escaping into easy attitudes of death?
Tomorrow, or next week, your spectral voice
could perambulate the lonely, moon-wet lawn
where twin footprints exit together — you,
dispossessed of lover, the neighbour of wife.