There's nothing I can't find under there. br Voices in the trees, the missing pages br of the sea. br br Everything but sleep. br br And night is a river bridging br the speaking and listening banks, br br a fortress, undefended and inviolate. br br There's nothing that won't fit under it: br fountains clogged with mud and leaves, br the houses of my childhood. br br And night begins when my mother's fingers br let go of the thread br they've been tying and untying br to touch toward our fraying story's hem. br br Night is the shadow of my father's hands br setting the clock for resurrection. br br Or is it the clock unraveled, the numbers flown? br br Ther's nothing that hasn't found home there: br discarded wings, lost shoes, a broken alphabet. br Everything but sleep. And night begins br br with the first beheading br of the jasmine, its captive fragrance br rid at last of burial clothes.