It is dusk in the small room.
Snow shrills upon stiff panes.
The radiator hisses beneath the sill.
The gloom inhabiting the four corners
Feels out the rug, the bookshelves,
The surface of the oak desk,
The deep armchair,
The sweaters folded there.
Slowly our eyes take in what is here
Then come to each other.
Our fingers are quiet,
Our bodies are slack and attentive,
As if we were listening for someone breathing,
For a word breaking, for whatever comes-
That still.
Then the street lamp comes on...
A frame of yellow light upon the floor,
And the room goes dark.
But something strong is with us.
We will never leave this house.