The Leaf on the Floor

Some leaves of a tree had been found on the nursery floor.

J. M. Barrie

Between fresh sheets,

they open their mouths,

gulp sleep.

The crunched springs

(windows up) sound

like cellos, tuning:

low, autumnal, worn.

It is a dry fall.

They feed their rooms

their sighs.

Things hit their marks

outside,

aircraft, crickets.

C-5s, big-bellied

with ordnance,

jump over the moon.

The cicada

resumes.

Their sighs run

to breath's edge, back.

Powdered and bathed,

snugged and tucked,

beloved

lie of continuity.

The door sucks shut.

One leaf-

palmed x-ray

of a day

(soccer fields,

victory, friends) -

descends:

stark animals,

dull sunsets,

blessings, meals, baths,

toweled and talcumed white

as plastered lath,

now I lay me,

do not slay me,

let me stay

alive,

alive,

asleep