LIKE A BOX

My mind grew quiet like a house at dusk, rooms black, except for moonlight stroking walls. Then sleep unlocked the door. When sleep appeared, removed its robe, and wrapped its arms around my neck whispering plunder in my ear, I even welcomed death to snuggle down. When death sistered itself to sleep, not brusque, but coy and clever as the start of fall-signaled by a first vermilion leaf, a chill against my cheek— then the sky opened like a box too full of diamond stars. When the stars reduced all nights to a jar stones, gray pebbles in a hand, then my mind could settle in its house and still.