Early
a candle burning
at both ends,
she a moth
that seeks the light.
The flame responds
to the beating
of her wings,
gray walls stir
and blink their eyes.
Her body is warm
but the floor is cold:
wax stiffens on the tile,
petal-fingers fallen
from dead hands.
The ghosts are out again:
the house belongs to them.
They conjure clouds
and hollow-muted sounds,
press firmly the nails
in coffin lids.
The kind ones
lead her back to bed:
she asks not who,
or how, or when.
Another looks
my way and shrugs:
it is night again.
June 18, 2006
Previous Entry Next Entry Return to Songs and Letters About the Author
Main Page
Author�s Note
Background
Notebook
A Listening Thing
Among the Living
No Time to Cut My Hair
One Hand Clapping
Songs and Letters
Collected Poems
Early Short Stories
Armenian Translations
Interviews
News and Reviews
Highly Recommended
Let�s Eat
Favorite Books & Authors
Useless Information
Conversation
E-mail & Parting Thoughts
Flippantly Answered Questions