No map traces the street br Where those two sleepers are. br We have lost track of it. br They lie as if under water br In a blue, unchanging light, br The French window ajar br br Curtained with yellow lace. br Through the narrow crack br Odors of wet earth rise. br The snail leaves a silver track; br Dark thickets hedge the house. br We take a backward look. br br Among petals pale as death br And leaves steadfast in shape br They sleep on, mouth to mouth. br A white mist is going up. br The small green nostrils breathe, br And they turn in their sleep. br br Ousted from that warm bed br We are a dream they dream. br Their eyelids keep up the shade. br No harm can come to them. br We cast our skins and slide br Into another time.