30 JULY 1994, Page 30

Hotel at the Bottom of the Night

In a hotel at the bottom of the night She stands by the bed, naked, hands on hips While, knees jack-knifed to chin, the sheet stretched tight, He stares at nothing. Next door a shower-rose drips.

Who are they? What will they do or speak of next? And why to their alien fears and tediums Have all your thoughts so brutally been annexed? From floors below a coffee odour comes.

Still there at dawn ( you checked out lives before ) They part: for her, drawn blinds, the old migraine; For him, the lakeside walk, the cafe door Framing a city smeared with wind and rain. David Hartnett