Storm at Midnight
you sleep under wood shavings
you dream of quail's eggs
you brew baptism from baby's breath
you sweep stars across ravines
you watch convex mirrors
you walk April paths
you surrender broken promises
you dip your hand in Egypt
she watches you cross the floor
she combs her black hair
she holds out a silver coin
she watches you devise her
she is not “The Moon Lady”
she is not “Dark Mother”
she is “Storm at Midnight”
she is “Reclining On Your Couch”
you walk you watch you wonder
you carry tempests in your hair
you have no gold no incense
you only have these hands you bring to her