We laid on a bed,

Firm and unyielding

Under closed backs,

A road straight as a rod,

Crow-bar forked

In the hinges of my jaw

Centred crux


Inside, the nothing I have

To offer glitters

Words in a mouth strong-locked

Which shies away

From enquiring looks

Thoughts boxed


I cannot add shine

Nor cut the thoughts from

Their buds

So I’ll get up,

And wash my hands clean;

Show compassion at

The fingertips of us


Then fold palms into wings

Pressed over eyes

Too tired to sleep.

I want us to shoot the

Heeled messenger, swift

In the feet