I never speak ill of the dead
it’s those who live
I worry about.

The sun, giving too much warmth
for the time of the year
and how we never seem
to fully enjoy it.

On windless days
I find myself gazing
into troubled water.

If the branch on which
a bird sits,
breaks. Will it fall?

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The wind had been blowing around the house all night, howling furiously. With a pounding heart I had listened to clattering gates, flying branches and dogs barking restlessly. As I delayed the moment when the dreams of the past night had faded to the point where I had no choice but to enter the real world with all its limitations, the memories came.

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She knows time heals no wounds
and even time is relative. Without calendars
she wouldn’t even know how old she is.

She's heard of deserts where the dunes sing
with a guttural sound that puzzles scientists.
On the other side of the world, ships crash
in the Bermuda Triangle of her memory.

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Sometimes she dreams about waking up.

In a vacant house of hungry cats
her stubbornness holds her up
like a hollowed oak.

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She knows Elvis is dead
still sometimes
she just has to believe

in the harsh light of day
after a night of lies
she carries water in leaky tubs
to a turbulent sea.

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Whether it's something or someone
I'm waiting for you ask
with a lip that trembles
for reasons I don’t know.

We're sitting on a hill
overlooking a city
where no one dares to believe anymore.

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