—hush the child

is sleeping. your mouth flaps
will summon locusts, unbury
your silences, dried-up and weary,

allow them to falter less heavily. the earth
layer rests. should you. do not scrape the shovel
as you go to uncover, quiet, a heart digs
with caution. and rhythm. extract

the pulse from the beat, take the tempo
but leave the bass drum behind.
remember violets. pergolas. the drape

flowers and grace. the vine hangings.
how fragile the moment of rest
cyclical but breakable
always. prohibit botanists from studying

the unlikely event. what hangs
in the balance—its existence.
shattered mask of closed-eye unconscious
brings grievances to redress. a child’s

wail. even the knock of wooden footsteps
will give up the ghost, of silence
and sleep. exorcise often, if you want

to disturb spirits. here we keep our mouths
shut. we pray only for rest.