Issue 2



Cindy Hunter Morgan


Before Sleep


Late September, frost warning.
You cover your cosmos
with a bed sheet,

lumpy white ghost I watch
from the casement windows
of my father’s boyhood bedroom.

I hope to see the sheet rise and fall –
long exhalation of oxygen,
last breath of summer –

or the moon burn through
that thin cotton membrane,
but I fall asleep pressed

between unending layers:
stratum of stars and indigo sky,
wood smoke and frost,

apples and late-blooming annuals,
and roots, tangles of roots
twisting around each other

beneath clods of cool soil,
trussing everything, all of us,