Our two heads on one pillow, I awake
to hear impediments scratch in the room
like rats.
I let you sleep, dream on.
Your face
is summer, cloudless, innocent; it blooms.
My kiss, a dying bee grazing a rose.
Something is wrong.
Or let a sonnet prove
the star we followed more than failing light
from time long gone.
Love is not love.
Your heart on mine, I feel, a marriage rite —
but on the floor there lie no wedding clothes.
Don’t stir.
The curtains won’t permit the sun.
Our minds are distant; sullen earth, cold moon.
Out of the corner of my eye,
I see them flit,
dark inklings, verminous.
Let me admit…