Lying Apart Now, Each In A Separate Bed, He With A Book, Keeping The Light On Late, She Like A Girl Dreaming Of Childhood, All Men Elsewhere, It Is As If They Wait Some New Event: The Book He Holds Unread, Her Eyes Fixed On The Shadows Overhead. Tossed Up Like Flotsam From A Former Passion, How Cool They Lie. They Hardly Ever Touch, Or If They Do It Is Like A Confession Of Having Little Feeling, Or Too Much. Chastity Faces Them, A Destination For Which Their Whole Lives Were A Preparation. Strangely Apart, Yet Strangely Close Together, Silence Between Them Like A Thread To Hold And Not Wind In. And Time Itself'S A Feather Touching Them Gently. Do They Know They're Old, These Two Who Are My Father And My Mother Whose Fire From Which I Came, Has Now Grown Cold?