At last, in the lengthening night

there is a turning around on

velvet pathways with curves set

softly afire, oceanic darkness linking

conversation with wisdom, Mother Wit

coming up from deep wells, talk that seems

real as dreaming slips in, out, past day

and tufts of songs rise behind teeth

like whistling grasses caught on branches

and light threading petals, future morning glories

while the mouth, heart are rich as darkness

and in its absence speak and are understood,

rising from waterways where traces of stars

act like power, lithe and brazen with love–

then with no warning: my awakening and

leaving bed and entering dawn

as though saved, realigned body, spirit, mind

and my Italian mug blue with silence,

waiting on a counter and ignorant of

sleep or little of it, yet a fine fit in my hand–

always deaf to talk, even this gratitude