Monday, 28 April 2014

#27 Half-Past Sunday

Guilt sleigh-bells my keys,
Loud in the late night
Creep of creaks and wiped feet,
Behind me the echo of
Tomcat blackness -
Nothing to see here.

Midnight churns in the kitchen
Overnight cleaning
Gleams against my
Shrinking flesh
With the promise of
Tomorrow's godliness.

I am battered
At high frequencies
By my inability to sleep
This close to arrival,
My mind's survival pinned
To glimmers of loneliness.

I need to slough off
All those I've touched,
Every joy packed
Into the black bag
From which it can be re-examined,
Naked in full light.

The weight of words
Shaken into milkpails,
I pare myself to the core,
Fall upwards into dark,
And start to dream tomorrow.

No comments:

Post a Comment