I look at you sleeping,
curled on your side like a snail in its shell,
your back safe against the white rails.
Your hair is pale silk against the Pooh-Bear pillow,
and I stand in the honeyed light that slides in from the
hall,
just breathing the same air that you breathe.
In a minute I will go back to my own room,
to the glass eye of the television set,
and I will watch soot-covered men pulling bodies
from those two towers that tumbled today.
I will watch people stepping into open air
where angels do not tread, and falling.
I will be grateful that you are sleeping
softly down the hall.
But for now I just stand in the light,
the bedtime book I read to you
still clutched in my hand,
and I think, my God, the sky really is falling.
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