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.