The Bed - Thom Gunn

Another by Thom Gunn, who transplanted to the West Coast from England decades ago, and became a part of the San Francisco poetry "scene".  Not a great poem but a good rendering of an experience we have all had.
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The Bed

    The pulsing stops where time has been,

         The garden is snow-bound,

The branches weighed down and the paths filled in,

             Drifts quilt the ground.

    We lie soft-caught, still now it’s done,

         Loose-twined across the bed

Like wrestling statues; but it still goes on

             Inside my head.

                                                                                Thom Gunn - American