THE FIRST LONG NAP I’VE  HAD IN YEARS

On the third floor of the Island Inn,

a room no larger than a minute,

the small bed filling the room,

I lay down. White walls, the white

of steamed milk, whiter trim

on the window, its white shade

half-closed, half-closed white

curtain rippling.

Me on the white down

spread, pillows

also white and more

than necessary.

Like sentinels or angels

wicker chairs stand

on either side of the window.

In the chairs are

a pair of pillows, their fabric

worn and translucent

violet, like the sea-glass

earrings I wanted

from the shop below.

Outside the window, the world

is cropped to just tips

of evergreens and roofs of fish shacks.

Their needles and shingles,

like everything else, have dropped

below the sight-line, vanished

the same as boats moored on the harbor

this morning when they

submitted to the fog.

Lauren Cerruto