I woke in the small hours
to find you
sitting at the foot of the bed
in our hotel room.
The window shutters
were latched in place
and a Mexican breeze
played in the cottonwood outside,
dancing on the face of the moon
and dappling you
in shadow and starlight.
I watched you for a long time. I never
asked why you couldn't sleep.
Don McWilliams
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-world-at-the-end-of-our-bed/
