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.