Just before dawn, wide awake,
No sleep left to work out of me,
The dregs of dreams cast
From my head, the anxiety
Of the irrational discarded,
An essential amnesia,

And the moon, hanging there,
Only for me, and framed
By the window, a plump,
Astonishing anticipation –
For an instant, it seemed odd

(Somewhat odd but far from
An epiphany as, the older I get,
Epiphanies are suspicious
And few and far between.)

That for thirty years we’ve met
In this room again and again,
Shared a bed, our sleep,
The reassurance of our skin,
Heavy breaths, small sighs.

Much younger, stumbling
In nocturnal oblivion, we robbed
Each other of the covers, but no
Matter the mood or circumstance
In the day, an intensity or cooling
Of passion, our blanket bound us,
Our tether each night.