Under northern skies in a hotel bed he is shifting in tidal sleep, from foyer bar oblivion. Blankly, perched at the bedside table, he has woken to January’s ashen afternoon. He scrawls then at fragments with a pen. The dream. A derelict warehouse, fingers phrasing over a hundred pianos. He knew too much, then ran from uniforms down escalators across glass buildings.
Under his window, all are in black and older. Friends raining. Waiting for taxis to the crematorium and later “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” sung for a mother too distant; muted where birds still swoop over the stones.
Photo credit: Anne Worner