Here, where all flowers
shrivel and wilt,
where all saints become
beggars and thieves,
I sleep with the ghost
of St. Cecelia.
Our eyes engaged, our neuroses
entwined, we cling to each other
with a desperation bloodles
and dull: like husband and wife.
David Kowalczyk
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/heart-distant-as-stone/
