They are not sleeping, the two
people in the corner
room of the apartment:
                                          Outside,
the twelve-o'clock whistle
in town, the black wash
of wind like surf
under the window,
                                 Inside,
the tiny rasp of breath in the bed
at the end of their bed
like a breeze lifting a blue dinghy
they have no idea how to sail.

This poem first appeared in Southern Poetry Review,
Used here with the author's permission.