Sitting on the edge of the bed, I think of La Divina, who, all of a sudden, comes
to mind like a gift-wrapped bedtime prayer begging: pietà, pietà! Too late to play
the record leaves me with a distant memory of that great ugly voice of hers, once
and again jaywalking through a night already immortalised in polaroid pictures.
But when I lie down with my eyes closed, I touch the air saturated with the scent
of Eau de Verveine, which is puzzling because I never actually wear cologne,
and I assure myself that I could fall asleep if only I knew why the lighthouse
was no longer lit. And I swear I could hear the hoarse lament of a foghorn…
Only there was no fog.
hidden pilcrow 