What we had was tenuous, but we held

out through the winter, despite chills

so severe you could actually feel the house

contracting. All night, each night

we huddled, as separate as our twin

beds would permit us, listening

with brittle-eared acerbity

to the phthisical cough-wracked radiators,

doing their damnedest but failing;

listening, and rustling in our places,

wondering what there would be to say if there ever

again would be real conversation. Then

one morning it dawns we are no longer

arguing. Bright light prisms through shutters.

The day is an equinox. We reach:

our fingers uncertain, as tentative and ambiguous

as in a Renaissance portrait, across

the bed-brain-winter-but-now-melting barrier.