Proust

By the light of my reading lamp, she regards me,
or regards the shape of me where I sit,
the shadow I am, she being mostly blind.
She’s lying on the couch, and it may be
she is uncertain I am even here, for she was asleep
when I entered the room and took my place
and began to read. And before I picked up
my book, it was I who studied her,
so slight and barely visible was her breathing.
Only the dream twitch of a paw made me know
she was alive, and I began. Then somewhere
in the midst of Swann’s Way, I became aware
of her again. It seemed I felt her looking at me,
in that way one feels such a thing,
and lowered my book, and peered over
my glasses to see her, her pupils large
and besilvered milkily. And now we have been
looking at one another for a long time,
I waiting for her to lay her head down and sleep again,
she perhaps wondering if the dark stillness,
available to her as scent at least, is me
or the ghost of me in my chair, there
even when I am not. And since I am wondering
what next endless memory will be taken up,
and wondering also how long our mutual study
might last, I rise and watch over my shoulder
as she traces the shape of my going
to the pantry, where I fetch her
one of the biscuits she loves.