When I am alone on the verge of sleep
and covered in dark no longer cozy
or comforting, I think of the dictionary locked in you,
the words you would play to tease or teach,
to engender pride or shame.
I remember your weight on the edge of my bed,
sinking, bending the mattress, pulling me toward you,
a great gravity sink, like our sun
keeping the earth in its circle,
your voice the slow song of whales
calling to me, floating me to sleep,
meaningless at last but pleasant.
Some nights now your snoring rises through my home
and hangs in the air, not deep or mournful
but more the intermittent growl
of the biplane you pointed out once at the beach.
By day you keep your recliner in its place,
your face blankly impassive, vacant,
a silent man in my noisy world,
a spectator not a speaker, a witness
who must keep your secrets to yourself
while my words flutter around you,
songs of finches and sparrows,
meaningless but, I hope, pleasant
and not the shrill screams of seagulls.
