The Sleepers

 No map traces the street
Where those two sleepers are.

We have lost track of it.

They lie as if under water
In a blue, unchanging light,
The French window ajar

Curtained with yellow lace.

Through the narrow crack
Odors of wet earth rise.

The snail leaves a silver track;
Dark thickets hedge the house.

We take a backward look.


Among petals pale as death
And leaves steadfast in shape
They sleep on, mouth to mouth.

A white mist is going up.

The small green nostrils breathe,
And they turn in their sleep.


Ousted from that warm bed
We are a dream they dream.

Their eyelids keep up the shade.

No harm can come to them.

We cast our skins and slide
Into another time.

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