IpYou and I, in hospital roomsBawling, emerged from our mothers' wombs,You on that day, me on another,Numbered and unnamed at the hour of our birth.Since then, my unnamed lover, we've been on a search,And find we must, each other, before we are rendered dirt.For just as in birth, in dying we numbered leave,Counting down the days, the hours, where then our name?For in birth we struggled to a cry so that we may breathe,And at the moment of death, struggle all the same.Why are you burnt into my memory?Seared buoyantly onto my nightless days,Ceaselessly picked from my unnerved place.It is not you, but a figment of me, taken your shape,Once yon Irishman from upon his tower did say,That a sword, after all, can cut both ways -To defend and to take; my sight with your lightsteals only from me, towards no ill gain,And when my sword your heart shall meet,It's not your heart my sword will keep...