As the surgeon's hands rest in steaming water

After untangling muscle from nerve all day,

So your hair lies spread on its pillow.

The fisherman's hands can't sleep: they cast nets

In a dark room with all the windows open.

At three o'clock by my watch your eyelids are moving.

The trainer spreads liniment on the prizefighter's fists

And I watch the pulse move in your neck and turn down the light,

And the pure auburn light in your hair darkens

As the child's hand darkens between his cheek and his mother's breast,

And the mother leans back in her straightbacked chair and sighs

And the day is over, blackness flexes itself

Slowly through the air as your hand

Rises and falls on your breastbone ready for tomorrow's work.