Howard Moss, the long-time poetry editor of The New Yorker, was himself a poet of note. Here is one of his that I love.
RULES OF SLEEP
In the sludge drawer of animals in arms,
Where legs entwine to keep the body warm
Against the winter night, some cold seeps through—
It is the future: say, a square of stars
In the windowpane, suggesting the abstract
And large, or a sudden shift in position
That lets one body know the other’s free to move
An inch away, and then a thousand miles,
And, after that, even intimacy
Is only another form of separation.