IN THE HUSH

While you sleep my hand resurrects
questions in limestone and bronze
the scuffle of honeysuckle
at the windowsill is wrapped in pretend.
After-all what do we really claim beyond
the weight of a head on a pillow.
There are times I scream out loud
to fix vocabulary, to tie the light
to anoint a prayer with the unconsciousness of dawn
send off the parts that lie irreverent and alone
obsessed with the refuge of fire.
Every sunrise is the moon in cinders
a finger echoed in the arch of a foot
the dust and ochre of a moth winging.