Some nights he stumbles
Into her grief, which tries
To drown him like an invisible well.
He is a wolf with no teeth,
He is a blind soldier
Shooting everything, he is
An ear of corn beneath the beaks of crows.
If only sorrow had shape
He could climb it like rope
To the attic where their marriage waits.

Husband and wife
—they touch, recede.
They sleep.