Tonight I made dinner for myself.
You will eat something later, or maybe
nothing at all. This is one of the ways
in which we misunderstand each other.
A lamp on the mantle throws its light
into the corners of the room. Windows
silently watch us and we watch them,
sitting under blankets in the drafty air
and staring at the television, nothing on.
We sleep together but we dream alone.
There is no remedy for this. It might be
better to be thrown like clay into a vessel
holding clear water, to stand on a shelf
forgotten until a thirst needs quenching,
hands need watching, or it spills, knocked
by something unknowable to the floor.