THE BED

  The pulsing stops where time has been,
    The garden is snow-bound,
The branches weighed dow and the paths filled in,
    Drifts quilt the ground.

  We lie soft-caught, still now it’s done,
    Loose-twined across the bed
Like wrestling statues; but it still goes on
    Inside my head.

  — Thom Gunn (1929 – 2004), British poet.


RETURN

Return often and take me,
beloved sensation, return and take me —
when the memory of the body awakens,
and old desire again runs through the blood;
when the lips and the skin remember,
and the hands feel as if they touch again.

Return often and take me at night,
when the lips and the skin remember …

  — C.P. Cavafy (1863 – 1933), Greek-Egyptian poet, journalist and civil servant.
      Translation by Rae Dalven.