2:30am
2:30, waking into fragile consciousness.
Dead calm: the eye at the dead centre,
a cyclone of treacherous dreams;
That feeling of disconnection, of lost time:
a tableau, torn away from the tapestries of the daily,
loose threads streaming out, like fingers of coral,
reaching out for something to cling to;
The addled perspective of sleep: the world’s distances
too big, of a sudden – the gap between the doorframe
and the door, all the world’s darkness flowing in
from behind; or the space between you and me.
I want to call out my name – as though my identity
were a tool to screw the world tighter, pulling
all parts together until they are seamless, like skin;
or to pull on my jeans, and my shoes,
and run down to the bakery on the corner,
to stand outside in the rain, listening to the nightshift,
banging their metal trays, and swearing at each other.
I think of you, fast-off now, somewhere else – how,
perhaps, later you will be awake when I have drifted off.
We sleep in shifts, take our breaks at different times.
