WHEN YOU SLEEP IN NOVEMBER

ANN IVERSON

A woman of dark trees
Hovers near your bed
Gathers your dreams
Pockets those missing
In great bushels
She stores them.

For your lacking days
Every dream is
In her branches
Her leafy garment
You take away

To touch the underside
Of her warmest belly
Nipples from pure earth
Dark folds beyond
This hunting thing

You think about her
When I’m talking
My futile chatter
I try saying
Don’t go away so long

To her darkness
Which you say is mine
And aren’t we all alike
We women and
Our secret places?