Wednesday 28 February 2018

Sleeping Patterns

she’s gone
to bed with the birds again.
grey dawn comes crying
bleeds pallid waves,
a silt of light through leaking blinds
and worms beat back the robin’s grip.

bones undeveloped
defiant after night’s crisp kick
are finally warmed
heavy 
in the cloak of bed
wrapped up safe in its arms.






honesty

There’s honesty in an unmade bed: “She’s got nothing to hide”