Friday, February 4, 2011

The moon is down
in the room where my Mother and I sat

dark and cold under cloudless skies.

I imagine that cars creep by
throwing their lights around the corner of the walls
disappearing, appearing again

a cold, silent place

waiting for the well to be turned back on
and the electricity

I sit here thinking about Galavani's dreams of resurrection
and about those warm, wood lit nights.
and her 3am voice