My ears are ringing.
Somewhere, the clocks were striking thirteen
and again, a half-hazy awakening,
a murmur of that transient commonplace.
A man had a tattoo, liquorice-black, thick,
"Fortnight" on the stereo.
Of course, another observation stuck, syrup,
hard to dislodge.
One domino topples in a quiet room,
they all do. Happy accidents lined up
and luminous.
Maybe your love would taste of strawberries
and Beaujolais. There’s a Maine Coon that sleeps
at the feet of your bed.
You can feel the absurdity, can’t you?
Throat bolus, hairball,
but on, calling, melodic whisper, the first
swell of brain freeze, vanilla flavoured.
The briefest of dances, siren in blonde.
Then fading, barely present. A time
which crinkled into insignificance, dust-pile
swept into forgotten memory.
If a shotgun fires by your face in a dream,
will it wake you up? O gone, O gone,
to the untouched tundra.