I take the lift to the eighth floor,
Walk through the steam of corridors
And knock at the numbered door.
Entering the porch, I pass
My face reflected palely in a glass,
Lean, with hollows under the eyes,
A heightened expression of surprise,
Skin porous, like cells in a hive,
And I think: 'Can you forgive?'
Yes, you accept. On the thin bed
Above the city night we float
Embodied on the waves, their boats,
Arm locked in arm, head against head,
Whilst the nerves' implicit contacts
Through the hidden cables spark.
All dips and enters and forgets in dark
Except my single staring sight
Hanging above its pilot light.
Upturned to the unwritten ceiling
My eyes there read another you,