In a neighborhood of windows, the sound of lovemaking.
In the night, no comparisons,
the ribbon of neighborhood swallowed up in shameless, answered sounds.
The windows open in summer to the elderly and alone,
the widower with his basement light always on.
The windows unshuttered in summer, undraped,
and open to every noise daylight would never allow:
private in the garden, though in the light;
and private trimming the holly bush, though in the sun;
and to passing joggers, head always down—
But in the night a great unawareness.
And the bees that somehow got through the windowscreen
circle the overhead light, circle the darkened globe,
and circle the coupled bodies with their great buzzing.