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 waitSome 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 confessionOf having little feeling - or too much.Chastity faces them, a destinationFor which their whole lives were a preparation.Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,Silence between them like a thread to holdAnd not wind in. And time itself's a featherTouching them gently. Do they know they're old,These two who are my father and my motherWhose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?
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