Jill Jones
			Night visitor August, 1997 He meant no harm last night, walking into the dream room of my childhood. He seems to know it well and steps between the single beds of memory, walking sure and faceless. I tried to speak the question or utter the name in his absent eyes but at my sound he vanished, the stairs were silent, and the thin black air. One night he stood still under the skylight, huge as a door, but more often he wanders in the hallway or at the foot of this wider bed. He is called by the tight band irregularly beating across my ribs and he hears my brain¹s low tide lapping the moon. A year ago he was tall and thin, a sheaf of flowers held below his heavy head. He reached down but couldn¹t touch me. I lay there calling but woke with hardly a groan. And for three days after he stalked the semi-circle, refusing to leave the night. All he wanted was a place to lay his flowers, a place across my breath. Now he¹s brought the past into the room and he¹s done with strange rhythms a heart like mine hurries the only future sure to pass. He has stepped between shadows, sure as solid and quick as winter dark. If he speaks I will vow to nothing, leaving the air open for retrieval, sirens and the blood orange dawn.