she loves, she
says,
to hear me
sing
an end-life
surprise
from a
song-less
child
so now
there are
evenings,
long, dark
evenings,
when i sit
down the dusty
hallway and
sing
for her
just
for her
a private concert
neither applauded
nor acknowledged
evenings,
when a voice
still new to her
drifts
down the darkened
hallway to
mix
with Memory
(suppers cooking)
(Tiparellos burning)
(children crying)
beyond
just
beyond
the Interlude-
laced blind of
night,
lashing us with
a softer
chain
s rogers, 25 november 2011
