So still,
not a car on the road,
my ears ringing with the sudden silence,
the wheezing emptiness of abandoned streets...

You feel so close in the fall of silence
at ten past one,
as though, not only has Noise
lain down its heavy head to rest
(beside his little brother, Movement),
but so has Distance put down his
exhausted weight
to sleep away the humming, tuneless hours.

Eleven past one a.m., and the only bustle,
the only nearly-imperceptible rustle,
is the sweet sleep-breathing
of a thousand faithful lungs
and a thousand more-
the sweet and yeasty sleep-breathing
of the trusting people,
wound up in threads of dreams.

You are so close,
I'm sure our fingertips could almost touch,
could almost...
my cool cheek could almost brush
the sun-stained warmth
at the back of your hand;
my lips could almost press
a rose-petal print
to your night-sweet neck;
your sleep-swollen mouth
could almost hush my rising breast.

Twenty past one, and the glistening world waits,
held, suspended on a spiderweb of breath.
I could almost breathe my own breath,
sleep-starved, into yours;
one mouth to the other-
the purple-stained kiss of life that revives
one heart with another...

I taste your breath in the early hours,
and your endearing sleep-breath
tastes of old sorrow, and clover honey,
and moon-flowers like trumpets;
your sleep-breath tastes dreamily
of mown pasture, clean river stones
and in-soaking rain,
blood-warm and turgid
as a steam-rising storm.