The Site

I was looking over the signs of a had nap.
There was no way of telling the size of the thing.
The blanket wherein it was taken was loose.
The pillow was dented; the bed, punched in.
The thing had apparently not even struggled,
  perhaps never knowing what creature had had it.

I thought of the goose down caught in the pillow,
   the stillness of all that soft death in life,
   the sense of quiescence it must have felt
   when the nap was become akin to itself.

I thought of the blanket, the sheared sheep,
   that weary wool of an innocent,
   becoming so hardened and tightly woven
   that plots like this one, to take a nap,
   were finally fully a part of itself.

And I wondered the nap was not extinct,
...