Roberto Picciotto

THE SWITZERLAND OF SLEEP

this is the season when we wake up

in darkness when sleet strains color

from the morning light when the mind

draws into itself as if rehearsing

a longer sleep. soon a cold fog

will hide the edges of things

and a soundless mantle of snow

will spread over the frozen ground.

let's call it an overture,

a silent prelude. dreams

are made of stuff as this:

think rivers of ice inching

down down gully and valley

think sheets that spread

on the plain and perched

on one bare branch a jay

will ring a strident note

piercing the fog: the morning

is a morning like any morning

the house is warm the window

is a silver print.