A Dreary Prospect

Once he's walked to the window, he looks out  
And entertains the dreary prospect, where  
Bare moors meet barren mountains; and, without  
A look back into anger, he will stare,  
Determined to expose all fixed ideas  
The grey scene might impose; as my lips slake  
Their thirst and keep him feeling that his fears  
Of isolation need not yet awake  
A worry in his mind - intimacy  
Is not so self-serving as I'd expect;  
I take great pleasure knowing what will be  
Was bound to be and, when he is erect,  
I need no sign to serve him and no talk  
To interrupt us after his short walk.