His answer’s unrecorded. The cloud passed
More quickly than the shade it cast,
Foreshadower of nothing, dearest heart,
But the dim wish of lives to drift apart.
Times we’ve felt, returning to this house
Together, separately, back from somewhere―
Still in coat and muffler, turning up
The thermostat while a slow eddying
Chill about our ankles all but purrs―
The junk mail bristling, ornaments in pairs
Gazing straight through us, dust-bitten, vindictive―
Felt a ghost of roughness underfoot.
James Merrill, The Changing Light at Sandover
