Rain keeps us indoors, so we live
by constraint and denial. No
walk on the beach, no sea-swimming,
no bicycle ride, no watching
the peep-and-vanish of lizards.

Instead, the clock ticks and one page
of the book turns to another.
Our fingertips now and again touch
as if to suggest the inside
and outside of love are the same.

This article first appeared in the print edition of The Spectator magazine, dated