Evensong

A song for the soup, and the spoon in the soup,
Warming cold bones at the close of the day.
A song for the bed, and the one in the bed,
That are pressed close together like bare feet and clay.
A song for the dark, and the bulbs in the dark,
That have tucked all their brightness away.
A song for the cheek and the neck and the kiss
And the clothes on the floor at the close of the day.