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]
Words with music 
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