There’s a carpark nearby to where
I was sleeping. Seems right. There’s a change
in the air, cold and compelling. I refused
the clocks, began to unravel the seasons
so barefaced and cruel, in this warm world.
I can’t think. Daylight spills in and dreams
spread out over the sky, scattered to air.
Spit on the pillow. Counting the windows
at the hospital, over her shoulder as she cried
bitterly, strobing, indelicate and pure.
Casting a numb tattoo on her knuckles
with the tips of her fingers, fire persisting
east to west they stood still. Quiet now,
I hear the vehicle coming along. What is it
here the same time each early morning
terrifies and charges the night, so that
to imagine the whole precinct coming out
and closing into the hills, and for a moment
I knew what it was to taste a mighty
and wonderful sensation,
and to touch the highest pinnacle of joy I
have ever known. It lasted for less than a second,
and was gone;
