Perhaps the gods are like us:

a couple breathless on a narrow bed.

They speak in low voices,

watching a fly cross the ceiling.

The self they lost comes back

on the breeze from a rickety fan.

A clock strikes. One touches

the other gently on the wrist.

As they undressed each other

now they dress themselves.

in deep silence, and leave us

alone with this clock and mirror,

this love, this fear, these white hairs

tangled in a single comb.