The Canticle of the Night

Below the window a sheet glows

blue, as boy breathes a dream

melody, soft snores in and out,

his moonlit skin a lunar lavender;

he turns once, twice, sighs in sleep.

Across the room, unseen by the moon

the bed in the corner hidden in shadow

creaks, springs an assonant whine

as a restless sleeper kicks a gray wool blanket

from his soaring in the sky to earth.

Five other beds are gray shapes in the night

two lumpy mounds, two barely outlined bodies

the fifth a frightened dreamer who yelps,

flailing shadowed limbs into moonlight,

brown gray lavender blue

below round brilliance rising

higher and higher in the sky.

This night two boys wait, their breaths paired

below the cry below the snores

below the whine of bedsprings

below the moon’s slow sail through the night.

Turned, their faces are mirrored

one in shadow one in moonlight

counting stars counting snores

counting hours days weeks

their breaths a soft descant

one more night gone

one more night

one more gone

to the canticle of the night.