Elegy for the Living

We wash up side by side to find each other in the speakable world, and, lulled into sense, inhabit our landscape; the curve of that chair draped with your shirt; my glass of  water seeded overnight with air. After this bed there’ll be another, so we’ll roll and keep rolling until one of  us will roll alone and try to roll the other back — a trick no one’s yet pulled off — and it’ll be as if   I dreamed you, dear, as if   I dreamed this bed, our touching limbs, this room, the tree outside alive with new wet light. Not now. Not yet.