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.