In the Beginning

I sleep two time zones,

wake in the small day between.

Darkness on the face.

No rest on the seventh.

The dustbin lid cracks down

on kitchen dreams.  Ashtray speaks

with gently-hammered elbows

and knees.

Only a blue-lit kettle

shines through the deep. 

Everything is transformed,

microwaveable.

I thank the god of oven mitts;

my fingers free to make

evening and morning,

and it is good.

At last we sleep

on the crumb-strewn floor. 

Evolved.  Immortal.
Creation under my nails.

tk/January 2015


Brilliantly delivered by R.A.D. Stainforth...

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It

Sleep is innocent.

It runs, hides in the dark,

is easily frightened by radiators,

the drop of a digital clock.

I have access no longer

to the lull of manifold sheep.

Time zones are corrupted

with a single cunning sock.

Night spins uncountable hours

in a game of blindfold;

I hear your voice in my head,

misidentify your face on purpose,

wanting always to be it.

tk/December 2014

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