The last two days were body -centric, at night and on the day . On the day it was a head full of empty echoes. Like an abandoned factory shed.
In the night sleep hovered over the eyes not descending. The eyes dreamed their sleep and when sleep would come it had frightful dreams straight out of the belly.
There were no walks. But there were poems under the night. A winter poem. A poem about mom’s dementia. At midnight she would grope in the dark and bang her head against the wall.
These days a woman among relatives who had a stroke watching television smiles all day. She has no tooth-edged mutterings. She smiles as if she has understood everything.