So many forebodings in the dark, so much dark.
The dark of the cinema spared by fire and bombs
of a World War – my mom, that little redhead,
her Jersey drugstore, Fords, Astaire?
Now I understand the world so various –
still question the art (a)part, as the world turns
like dice, still inscrutable –
I’m wearing a darker shade of lipstick
deep red, black rose, my double and I taking pleasure
in the mirror we sing – à la Brecht — about the dark times.
Questions sift to a close. The cat left a gift
of a dead rabbit on the doorstep. The wind whips.
I drift into sleep.