Sleepless
                   inthe cold dark,
             I look
                   through the closed dim
             door be-
                   fore me, which be-
             comes an
                   abyss into
             which my
                   memories have
             fallen
                   past laughter or
             horror,
                   passion or hard
             work—my
                   memories of
             our past
                   laughter, horror,
             passion,
                   hard work. An ache
             of be-
                   ing. An ache of
             being,
                   over love. An
             ache of
                   being over
             love. Like
                   projections on
             the screen
                   of the heavy
             window
                   curtains, flashing
             lights of
                   a slow-scraping
             after-
                   midnight snowplow
             for a
                   moment pulse in
             this room.