Could it have ever been enough? Yes. No. 

But close enough one day out of every

and never-together still more ago: 

The sore sport’s awareness-without-remorse

of the cold toilet seat (where he could shit,

for once, with the door shut and the dust motes

little snow in the modest sun, thinking:

To be there, crook of the Wife-Neck, breathing 

that good Neck-Air must be a pleasant thing 

to see and hear) suggests he assess the

loneliness of yet before now was new.

Till then we'll be dead once, perfect strangers;

the coming spring presaging the coming 

End of spring, as we’ll claim we always knew.