Deep in the Summer Night, a Rustling in the Leaves Outside the Bedroom Window
As if an envelope slips through a slot.
A greenly heaping scent, the warm digestive inner life,
and what is scent but molecules
in the heated night rising mixed
with the steam of the roses.
Like sand scrolling down in a tilted tray,
like one page shushing over another.
Whap of the cat-flap,
beat, and a rhyme half-pad, half-claw, comes closer
down the wood floor of the hall.
And what is scent but volatile organic compounds
though the open window,
mucous, fibers, fats, and salts.
Something soft pushed out into the dirt.
As I know the key of the silence
before the next song on the album,
I know how long he waits
at the foot of the bed before
he jumps up.
His fur of rushy night, his fur of crushed leaves,
his nose, where has it been, his sandy paws,
I know where they’ve been,
the steaming through the window,
humus music under and over
the heat-swelling roses.
His rough purr on my cheek, and my sifting-down
return to sleep, as papers slide
into keep/not keep, singing themselves
into folders for the highest shelves.