There is a grave conspiracy between sleep and death —
those little deaths each night that we call slumber,
and those long sleeps at the end of days that we call death.
So when she asked if the black dragonfly
on the edge of the civic fountain
was dead or only sleeping
(in much the same way she might have asked if
the waving man were drowning
or the drowning man only waving)
I could only recall this —
from years of sleep-like-death
overtaking me each night
and death-like-sleep
claiming those I love —
I could recall only this —
from the stillborn child at dawn
and the vigil at bedsides
and the quick, violent deaths
and the slow painful losses —
I could recall only this when together
we looked at the dragonfly
dark against the edge of the fountain
and she asked
still a child
is it dead or only sleeping?
I recalled only this: Everything wakes up.