Sleeping Together

is like a myth
 in which each participant
 must suspend disbelief, but can’t.
The sad reality
is the irreparable separateness
  of the body, the sorry weight
of all that person-meat drawing us into
the declivities
   beds seem determined
to construct for our
imperfections. How we labor to undermine

the work of love
 by insisting on our flaws
 as the great leveler, the cause
of all our fleshly woes.
The harsh truth is: There’s no such thing
  as sleeping together. You were there
when I closed my eyes, and there when I awoke.
You could have jetted,
    during those eight hours,
to Madrid and back,
committing indiscretions with matadors