Waiting for the Daemon
By Pamela Steele
22 August 2005
There is no one else here,
no face at the window,
nor electric hum of ghosts.
The trees outside are only trees,
the flowers on the sill
have no particular names.
I turn a dome of silence
over in my hands,
waiting for annunciation,
a collision of wing and claw
to rouse me from this calm.
Outside, hard frost has fallen
from the mouth of the moon,
collecting on the junipers,
pooling on the lawn. What
I wouldn't give for just one
more taste of your terrible
and exquisite tongue.
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