Evening

To think, or maybe to know,
You're resting your white hands,
On the grainy grey marble worktops,
Feet awkwardly standing on
The tiled floor,
The cavelike kitchen,
All inclusive, the frosted glass,
Shy in being all revealing,
As I recall, but I must detach
From the wretched room, or at least,
Half-room, the garden lights,
Probably solar, they blur through those
French doors, nocturnal bright eyes,
Me and feeling polar,
Maybe not there, my hands on yours,
But not not there, my hands on the ice panes,
But caught in the middle, the muted voice
In the vacuum of the in between, double
The hazing on either side, the almost-air
Walls of nothing, or maybe, the glazing--