Gillian Cummings

Slumber, Come Down From the Sky

When she sleeps, the spinto sings the clouds
feathering heaven with the dust of exhaust,
sings the earth’s colding, chestnuts falling in
meteor showers to the vague ostinatos of wind,
how rugged weather brings an aroma of become,
or of perish, whenever it rains, rains clod-hard
and heavy over the houses, their roofs wrinkled
with streaming like crevassed, worn leather, worn
life, the boat without wings kedged to the sea’s
storm-edge, the place she was warned not to go,
too psychedelic, too devil-may-care, too carnival,
but she sings until her voice is lost, a dropped thread,
the spun silk stitching her cocoon stretched thin,
until the dream ruptures, to begin her aria of silence.