Temperatures dropping tonight,
 
our window swung wide to wind,
 
loose sheets of moonlight in the trees.
 
I watch you sleep as shadows
 
become the things I recognize:
 
work boots, bicycles, plumping
 
vegetables. I move quietly for you,
 
for the skin around your eyes,
 
your breathing. Could you be
 
dreaming of orbits inside us, organs
 
that keep us? I like to think
 
you gather the cures we cry for
 
at birth when everyone reaches
 
through a hard light. You choose
 
your cures half-consciously, casually,
 
as one plucks leaves or tips of tall
 
grasses, as if out walking alone.