Warmed by a nightlong rest,
we whisper the common riddle. The eager zest
of love quietened by morning, sleep, speech
and indulgence shared hours before. Now, heavy-lidded, reach
for an arm or fingertip. A sound, and we rise to leave
that sanctuary. The bed cools, the two halves cleave.
Now, armored with boots, scarf, a hat for my head,
I wonder at life which wrenched me from that bed
(and you). Is it not cruel that we are called
from the warm pressing of our bodies and hauled
to trains, trams, buses by necessity? –
Forced to numb our feelings in freezing February.