I suppose part of it is doubt. If I return
And the sofa is empty, except you lying there,
Your silence gives me little space to sit.
I’m with you, but without; I’ve had to learn
How motionlessness is gesture, an affair
Of violence, a tiredness in the heart.
I let my briefcase rest, ignoring it,
Walk past it, sullen, a thief in our own home.
You do not wake, yet tear the house apart;
You care for nothing much but every bit
Of nothing. You say you did not read my poem,
Or see my coming in. I’m glad for that,
For if you’d seen my face, I fear you might
Not tell this stranger, “Darling, in you come.”