May things stay the way they are
in the sim­plest place you know.

May the shut­tered windows
keep the air as cool as bot­tled jasmine.
May you nev­er for­get to listen
to the crum­pled whis­per of sheets
that mould them­selves to your sleep­ing form.
May the pil­lows always be silvered
with cat-down and the mut­ed percussion
of a lover’s breath.
May the mur­mur of the wall clock
con­tin­ue to decree that your providence
run ten min­utes slow.

May noth­ing be disturbed
in the sim­plest place you know
for it is here in the foetal hush
that blue­prints dissolve
and poems begin,
and faith spreads like the hum of crickets,
faith in a time
when maps shall fade,
nos­tal­gia cease
and the vig­il end.
 

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