hello

this is the stop

my mind has taken

the bus to.

it is a picture 

of a paper pinwheel

spinning on the

stony balcony

with the wind

warning us

of a hard, loud

raining evening

my hair blowing

strands fighting,

but they are too short

to make love,

so they will war on...

father is missing,

his voice late

for its weekly meeting

with mother's 

waiting ears.

then she cried.

so i cried too.

and we slept,

waiting still.