2 AM

The wind drives the rain against the window.
The curtains stir as if brought to life. Trace the
flowers across the walls and the door, the vines
across the chairs and the floor. Turn over and
over again, pretending to sleep or half sleep.

4 AM

A small child weeps and wails. Voices from
the apartment next door. Footfalls and rat's
memories. A bone man enters and exits the room,
his shadow trailing behind like an unwinding
shroud. This is not my home, he says. This is
not my portable TV.

6 AM

Blue grey morning. More wind, more rain.
Faint smell of cigarette smoke on the air. Some-
where a radio plays. Somewhere a spider climbs
into thin air. Somewhere an old woman folds herself
painfully into an armchair.

8 AM

An already weary sun slips the clouds
and brushes the rooftops. Birds fly, cats
flail, dogs trail their masters. A pale
forgotten ghost of a boy drifts half dressed
through the empty rooms of an empty house.

10 AM

All mysteries are now ended, all abominations
shut away. The books are closed and back on
their shelves. The witch in her pointed hat
and patched old cloak switches her machines
off and sits back for the silence.

12 AM

The pencil has snapped, the pen run dry,
the paper curled up. It's raining again,
a hard heavy rain that seems like it may
never let up. The poet's in the bathroom,
standing at the mirror, looking for his soul,
but finding nothing, he belches and yawns.