Supine in silence, circled by his breath,
he sleeps with her whose unlatched womb
becomes a bolted room—
bolted against the wind and rain, against
the marble distances that keep
awake above his sleep.
There's not a word she says
but is made flesh.
Nature holds earth.
Asleep he lies in birth—
forgetting, as the earth forgets,
his monster seas and plunging fishernets.