This lack of
Professional identity.
wakes me too soon,
With the dawn moon.

The building tones on a single stone note,
Like blood through ears.
Overlooked, but for the silence
Of time unbooked.

I go stumbling
into a different fame.
Where smaller applause lulls me,
Like crumbling brickwork,
The flashing indented,
Re-invenited,
Like ancient sea rocks,
Soft to the shells of clinging creatures
And the feathers of gulls.