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