Even the hidden slither of traffic

is night-still.

That dream again that woke me, blind,

drums in my pulse, not quite smothered in starlessness.

 

As if a baby had stopped breathing in the next room,

the night quilts thinking.

Only my blood, only my heart,

 

only the slow fumble of my foot

testing the darkness, stumbling for a fuse

tripping on the dream that sprawls in the doorway.

 

 [Poetry Nottingham 62/2, 2008]

 

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