By Philip Booth
Lying down at dark,
My waking fits your sleep.
Flares the slow-banked fire
Between our mingled feet,
Curved close and warm
Against the nape of love,
Who holds your dreaming
Shape, I match my breathing
To your breath;
And sightless, keep my hand
On your heart's breast, keep
On your sleep to prove
There is no dark, nor death.
Plaque for a Brass Bed
By Charles Philbrick
Everything else is just furniture. This bed
is frame on which, in light or dark, forgiveness
weaves itself, and failure fails to matter.
Here love has worked, and pain has visited;
here life has struck; here death may still the sheets:
this bed our garden, altar, engine-room,
the tablet of whatever testament our blood
has written in our more than twenty years.