Lying apart now, each in a separate bed, br He with a book, keeping the light on late, br She like a girl dreaming of childhood, br All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait br Some new event: the book he holds unread, br Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead. br br Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion, br How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch, br Or if they do it is like a confession br Of having little feeling - or too much. br Chastity faces them, a destination br For which their whole lives were a preparation. br br Strangely apart, yet strangely close together, br Silence between them like a thread to hold br And not wind in. And time itself's a feather br Touching them gently.