|
about
the site
the
author
titles
first
lines
essays
translations
acknowledgments
abraxas
press
|
3 a.m.
I
am up late, there is a doorbell
ringing
sideways through
her
sleep house.
She
descends, her face
on
edge, accusatory.
Something
is wrong,
the
child next door…
No,
I say. I show her,
unlocking
the outside:
only
the drone of night.
I
am left alone, left
with
the buzz in her dream
of
an elsewhere
tragedy.
Begone!
Go away!
Alan
Marshfield
top
of page
note |
