To a watchful moon, and the blood of first azaleas after sudden snow in April, and sleep in the lighted darkness between her breasts among the scent of green lemons. No dreams except those of children lost among dreaming of other older nights, no home either - just the silence of his eyes and deep breathing that she is a witness to, and this waiting for words that he doesn't say, this man, strange and unknown, sometimes even in the tenderest of speech.