Twice I woke up tonight and wandered to
the window. And the lights down on the street,
like pale omission points, tried to complete
the fragment of a sentence spoken through
sleep, but diminished into darkness, too.
I’d dreamt that you were pregnant, and in spite
of having lived so many years apart
I still felt guilty and my heartened palm
caressed your belly as, by the bedside,
it fumbled for my trousers and the light-
switch on the wall. And with the bulb turned on
I knew that I was leaving you alone
there, in the darkness, in the dream, where calmly
you waited until I might return,
not trying to reproach or scold me
for the unnatural hiatus. For
darkness restores what light cannot repair.
There we are married, blest we make once more
the two-backed beast and children are the fair
excuse of what we’re naked for.
Some future night you will appear again.
You’ll come to me, worn out and thin now, after
things in between, and I’ll see son or daughter
not named as yet. This time I will restrain
my hand from groping for the switch, afraid
and feeling that I have no right
to leave you both like shadows by that sever-
ing fence of days that bar your sight,
voiceless, negated by the real light
that keeps me unattainable forever.
