Written to Rilke, Listening to Netrebko

I would like to sleep once with each thing, nestled
in its warmth; to dream in the rhythm of its breathing,
its dear, naked neighborliness against my limbs,
and grow strong in the fragrance of its sleep.

Rilke—early writings.

The sleep of default to solitude, how a dark
corner where your head rests pulls you away

from the world, turning your soul inward,
to weave a net for desire.

And the sleeping with another thing—
a dream slow to wander off into the twilight.

Speaking to that dream cautiously,
so that it stays, breathes against your hair.

And memory. Memory the guaranteed lover,
reverie, the bridge over time, the green

creek with its silt of small bones beneath
the strained bridge.

For the dream come to life makes the memory
and then each one, a white moth pressed

against the screen through which light
flows, as if to say I am all you have.

If light is the final thing we know, our true
Intimate, if we reach for it, to tear open

like tissue paper and then, someone begins
to sing of the river in twilight,

we the completed ascend, our pale wings
edged in fire.


copyright Jenne’ R. Andrews 2012