In the early morning or late night darkness of the dark
and darkening outside; streetlamps
flick wild flames of impassioned words,
sticking to roofs in all the corners, underneath
guttering; the mimicking day glow
sputters. I teeter on the windowsill watching
with abandoned features the slick
of the early morning or late night darkness, thickening
down ravines of pot-holed tarmacadam,
and I do not care if I am seen.
I want to sit and breathe the air and hope
the early morning, when it dispels the late night
darkness, will distil its newness and all that is new
of day and sun into my skin and in, my blood-
stream needs it - so neighbours pull your
curtains so that they touch and fend off the darkening
outside, don’t blame me if voyeur cat-like eyes
impose on your insides' goings-on; or meet me
as I meet the world tonight, if you wish, stand
vigil with me as the early morning comes.
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