We hate to hate each other but we do—
then feeling bad because of that we lay us
next to next in bed, two statues on a tomb.
We want to crash to sleep but can’t
reliving meannesses and fights that flicker past
as dumb shows in the cemetery light.
But leave you? I do not think I could.
I like what carries on. I like the in-and-out

sound of your breath and your warm skin,
my steadfast partner, in the practice death.