This morning I am covered up in darkness
And I am trying to remember where the days are longest—
Is it the equator or the North Pole? Either way, I’m moving.
This darkness is the sort that creeps in through your windows and then through your soul
And makes you wish you had a picture
Of your little boy when he still loved you,
And when there was summer,
And when there were days
Without darkness,
The sort that climbs through your windows,
Slips under your covers
And stares at you like an angry lover,
Waiting for you to wake up.