From the hodge porridge br of their country lust, br their local life in Illinois, br where all their acres look br like a sprouting broom factory, br they name just en years now br that she has been his habit; br as again tonight he'll say br honey bunch let's go br and she will not say how there br must be more to living br than this brief bright bridge br of the raucous bed or even br the slow braille touch of him br like a heavy god grown light, br that old pantomime of love br that she wants although br it leaves her still alone, br built back again at last, br mind's apart from him, living br her own self in her own words br and hating the sweat of the house br they keep when they finally lie br each in separate dreams br and then how she watches him, br still strong in the blowzy bag br of his usual sleep while br her young years bungle past br their same marriage bed br and she wishes him cripple, or poet, br or even lonely, or sometimes, br better, my lover, dead.