Years ago descending
from our summer-rental rooms,
absorbed by the sweet last
taste of something iced and glistening
Mother’d given me, I slid and fell
into a long stillness, and was carried
to the day bed by the window
covered by Venetian blinds.

As quiet as Venice
on that street where my ruined back
healed—all the fathers
train-fled. Shadowed mornings full
of the wheel and caw
of gulls, and when ocean freshets blew,
the fragrant clattery dance
of wooden slats on the sill.

She clicked them up
in gentled flamenco,
when I drowsed full
of dappled sleep, rippled
them down when rose light faded
to the color of their faded ribbons.

And I woke

2 A.M. — moonmelt pawprints
here and there on the black blanket

for the joy of sleeping

slept

6 — almost immobile
white fireflies!

for the joy of coming awake.                        

Wake me again, indivisible
with liberty, bottles singing
in the milk truck, tipped heels clicking
down my street, and my windows flashed 
open to the cloud-quilted sky—
a box-stitched comforter
thrown up to air, squares
translucently edged. 

My self is tied
in the chains
of you, silenced
by you,

collapsed down into
an irretrievable black box as you
swerve, droop, fizzle— 

oh, don’t evict me 
after my long lease—

and doctors collect
your measurements, medial,
proximal, pick your locks
with dilators, depressors...

Don’t drag me
down like a bale
of shadow!
We’re thick as thieves
we two, I’m in the thick
of you—

Give back
my brilliant
ignorance.                        

Outside for hours, stretching
to top the heavenly bamboo, 
bending to cut the dry
lavender stalks, then taking
a slow stroll as the afternoon
begins to close: late glow 
cherishing white garage doors, back-lit pine 
turned into gold-beaded fringe,
the beads dazzling up and down
the needles until the drama
of the light quiets.

Thank you, I don’t know
who.

And for lamplight’s  
bright halo beside
my reading chair, 
over my bed; and for
my bed, the loft of its
covers. For sleep
when it comes, its loft,
its covering, I want to
praise, dear no one.  
And to thank you, 
of the blank signature, 
for the ongoing book
I bring to bed, in whose world 
I so easily remain—its pages
turning pleasantly over
and over like days.