Precinct

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;