At night in bed I hear it out there:
a sound like wind sneaking around,
trying to snake its way in
around shaky windows or under doors
or wherever paint has gone to pieces
slowly losing its grip,
straining to hold the house together
in spite of those varicose
cracks that crawl
back and forth across the walls
and wander from ceiling to floor and back
in search of the meaning of life.
But when I roll over, I hear something other.
A sleeper breathing. She rises. She falls.
Wherever she goes, footprints follow:
scars that glimmer and heal,
all along the moon path
carved on still water.