Sleep Drops Its Nets By Jean Valentine
- Share via
Sleep drops its nets for monsters old as the Flood;
You are not you, no more than I am I;
If our dead fathers walk the wall at night
Our hands when we wake up are white on white
Betraying neither wounds nor blood;
The voice is mist that made us cry.
And then day sweeps the castle dry.
From “The Yale Younger Poets Anthology,” edited by George Bradley (Yale University Press: 306 pp., $16 paper)