Where are we on this cold dark night, hands
wrapped around empty cups waiting
for prophecies to arrive?
Where did the words go,
simple words, complicated words,
words that mean nothing,
words of magic and of scholarship?
There is only the silence of apartments
in the hour between death and sleep.
Where is the poet, wrestling with her thoughts,
her double life, her ghostly lovers
who tempt her with thoughts of sugar
and a storm? Should we not be on the lookout?
Shouldn’t we be in a watchtower, or scanning the footage
of surveillance cameras? Waiting at the edge of deserts
for prophets to appear?
I think, I say, I’m expecting someone
or something; or maybe I’m missing
the touch of something familiar,
like the note from a guitar
as it escapes from
I’ve never known silence like this,
wrapped around me like walls of cotton.
Even a mirror is no comfort to me now.