When in the course of sleep you turn and touch
my shoulder, hanging on to me as if
the scalloped ocean of your dreams were much
too much to bear alone, I know the cleft
that forms between true lovers when they sleep
is partial, almost something to be wished
were it not there. And when from that same deep
a garbled syllable of fear is fished
and tossed between us on the waking deck
with cool and jeweled eyes, I wait to see
if sleep won’t come again to haul it back
beneath those waters. Huddled in the lee
of our affection, we can well afford
cold creatures, distances, the alien word.