You lie coiled in embryo sleep
below the blue painting of the fisherman;
the checkered blanket tousled on the floor.
This old house creaks in reply to the quiet wind.
A car passes
and the glow of the streetlamp
dances through the shutters in hysterical patterns.
I lie engulfed by emptiness.
Moving silently, disentangling myself from you,
I grope in the dark for cigarettes.
Across the room I sit observing you.
Otherwise, there is no change;
not in the way you lay curled up . . .
not in the sounds that never come from you . . .
not in the discontent I feel.