by Philip Booth
Nightsong
Beside you,
lying down at dark,
my waking fits your sleep.
Your turning
flares the slow-banked fire
between our mingled feet,
and there,
curved close and warm
against the nape of love,
held there,
who holds your dreaming
shape, I match my breathing
to your breath;
and sightless, keep my hand
on your heart's breast, keep
nightwatch
on your sleep to prove
there is no dark, nor death.
Beside you,
lying down at dark,
my waking fits your sleep.
Your turning
flares the slow-banked fire
between our mingled feet,
and there,
curved close and warm
against the nape of love,
held there,
who holds your dreaming
shape, I match my breathing
to your breath;
and sightless, keep my hand
on your heart's breast, keep
nightwatch
on your sleep to prove
there is no dark, nor death.
about the poet:
Booth's honors include Guggenheim, Rockefeller, and National Endowment for the Arts fellowships, and the Theodore Roethke Prize. In 1983 he was elected a Fellow of The Academy of American Poets.Philip Booth died in Hanover, New Hampshire, on July 2, 2007 from complications of Alzheimer's disease.taken from: www.poets.org/index.php
