A Ponderosa pine, & cover

Even the three cards he dropped there, three silent diamonds,

And cover everything in the Sierras, & make my meaning plain.

THE CRY

Then, everything slept.

The sky & the fields slept all the way to the Pacific,

And the houses slept.

The orchards blackened in their sleep,

And, outside my window, the aging Palomino slept

Standing up in the moonlight, with one rear hoof slightly cocked,

And the moonlight slept.

The white dust slept between the rows of vines,

And the quail slept perfectly, like untouched triangles.

The hawk slept alone, apart from this world.

In the distance I could see the faint glow

Of Parlier—even its name a lullaby,

Where the little bars slept with only one light on,

And the prostitutes slept, as always,

With the small-time businessmen, their hair smelling of pomade,

Who did not dream.

Dice slept in the hands of the town's one gambler, & outside

His window, the brown grass slept,

And beyond that, in a low stand of trees, ashes slept

Where men with no money had built a fire, and had lain down,

Beside the river,

And saw in their sleep how the cold shape of fire

Made, from each crystal of ash, the gray morning,

Which consoled no one.

Beside me, my brother slept

With a small frown knitted into his face, as if

He listened for something, his mouth open.

But there was nothing.

On my last night as a child, that sleep was final.

Above me, the shingles slept on the roof,

And the brick chimney, with smoke rising through it, slept,

And the notes on sheet music slept.

I went downstairs, then, to the room

Where my mother & father slept with nothing on, & the pale light

Shone through the window on the candor

Of their bodies strewn over the sheets, & those bodies

Were not beautiful, like distant cities.

They were real bodies

With bruises & lattices of fatigue over their white stomachs,

And over their faces.

His hair was black, & thinning. Hers was the color of ashes.

I could see every detail that disappointment had sketched,

Idly, into them: her breasts & the widening thigh

That mocked my mother with the intricate,

Sorrowing spasm of birth;

I could see

The stooped shoulders & sunken chest of my father,

Sullen as the shape of a hawk in wet weather,

The same shape it takes in its death,

When you hold it in your outstretched hand,

And wonder how it can shrink to so small a thing,

And then you are almost afraid, judging by the truculence

Of its beak & the vast, intricate plan

Of its color & delicate shading, black & red & white,

That it is only sleeping,

Only pretending a death.

But both of them really unlike anything else

Unless you thought, as I did,

Of the shape of beaten snow, & absence, & a sleep

Without laughter.

They lay there on their bed.

I saw every detail, & as I turned away

Those bodies moved slightly in the languor of sleep,