When I return alone home,
morning, afternoon, evening, night,
. . . . . . is there . . . . ever
silence undances with a skindeep shadow
reflected from an unsilvering memory.
I bed my brokenmess
cocooning the pillow
soft but unbreathing
yielding but unwarming
the unthreading remains of love
pulled up to my kissless lips
as night grows colder
as I turn
into a foetal question mark.