Moon hour

Waking up,
the streets are with so empty
it's hard to believe night
could hold the moon so delicately
in its hand, detached,
like a mirror.

The mirror while we sleep
gathers the mountains up
and waters the thirsty dreams
of thistles
blowing in the moon breeze
the moon aloft
yolked to night forever,
neither dejected nor happy
it wanders its light through
its milk on the ground.


Sleepwalk**

Your mother in a sleepwalk began searching in the leftovers
of what lay in her mind for the three things she had misplaced.

A ring of keys or a wooden bowl, an appointment not written down,
a door not closed.

There she is descending the stairs, opening drawers and pulling
back curtains until her father wakes her, asking

"What is it your looking for?" And leads her back to her room,
where the future resumes and she is telling this story to a child.