The smoke settles in the valley

me

the cat bats at my nightgown

lying black and dark upon the sheets

as the wolves in hills not far

deplore to the night sky

the death of a mother, brave and young.

and the cat stares at me, eyes round

surely moons in this bare-lit room.

you

and oh how the smoke settles in the valley!

you lie in bed at night, eyes watering

while the cat kneads her claws into your chest, softly purring.

My absence denies you

the previous privilege of sleep; wolves in the hills,

the cat's contentment digging into your skin,

the smoke drifting like dust through the open window,

the heat like Othello's vengeance,

it is not these; images of me

have you compelled through the maze of your imagination,

my dear Theseus.

Yet you have not quite met your minotaur, an elusive nightmare,

as you like awake, eyes pasted to the ceiling,

trying to breathe.

My love, who is it

that trims the hedges of this labyrinth?

them

Smoke settles in the valley,

laying spark and cellular trappings into the soil

with the absence of god, gone now for a few years or more

and whispering godlessness into the dreary ears of some.

Outside your window, Queen Mab dallies.

She likes your forgotten, hell-bent dreams

though has time to visit the likes of us,

choking with lust and weariness.