For my mother
The young men,friends of our middle one,camp nights in your bed.Some leave it with hospital corners,some leave it like a lair to revisitand some make cocoons on top.In most casesthey are shaping up.On kitchen raidsthey all report sound sleepand I wonder what it isthat breaches their dreamsas they lie downin this last contracted room of yours?Can they imagine your life?Is it the pati ... (read more)