Beyond the mountains, the mountains,
beyond over their bumps and hills and small pocket
paths tucked into the seam,
you're sleeping still,
still sleeping;
glass of water on the desk sat upright and uptight
next to a gathering of white sugar, they-will-work pills
that you've taken one of.

Before you woke the window watched
the street below, I joined in and saw
smoke and busses, taxi cab film rushes
uncut and newly coloured for the silver screen
that's too expensive to see.

That morning I tided your clothes in
neat piles and mountain tops
where the summit was socks ready
for you to wear again until you leave me lonely and go home.