Heart decrying distance, Words defying pen For lack of substance. Always appearing just before sleep ends As my mother to my younger self Came to wish sweet dreams in bed (Though I'm no far-seeing Celt) It comes then as no surprise, that voice, Though the pre-cursetory ring I never felt. Calls heralded by his body, in my mind cloistered, Though I know to well where his body lies Sleeping only-or would if it was my choice, And if my choice, then nearer too, fewer miles. Thus more chance to see, and, yes, to touch, That words might sooth and not bridle. They can, and have, done each much.