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Such odd napery, draping down the edges of our bed:
The hangings are queer; new bars of light sponge out the
torpid land of dreams
And find the rinds of clothing strewn beneath a copse of sundust; dead
Air spreads a silent quilt, floured with rich, unseemly dyes in
Balding patterns, mapping out the guilt that can impregnate linen
Like blood.  Dear neighbor, when you slept here I could labor
near your breath
Or bide my life and not regret your lips beneath the midday sun.
But now I am alone; and every corner hides an innocent
Spark of envy, a modest weight of bitterness, replete with maxims,
The sum of which says, `go on, go on: this pallid room is
empty.' How odd
These common comforters wax ceremonial. So we advance.
And daylight charges me, impels the energy to shuffle back
The shadow of your presence. But dark weals of evening peel
The strength from my defenses. A deep penumbra
lights upon the somber
Memories of lost (then endless) hours when I might curl in descant
To your shape; now amorphous bedclothes adumbrate in simple
Folds, the figure in the light I wakened to:I loved.
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