In the semidark we take everything off, 
love standing, inaudible; then we crawl into bed.
You sleep with your head balled up in its dreams,
I get up and sit in the chair with a warm beer,
the lamp off. Looking down on a forested town 
in a snowfall I feel like a novel — dense 
and vivid, uncertain of the end — watching 
the bundled outlines of another woman another man
hurrying toward the theater’s blue tubes of light.


Darren Angle