2 a.m.

2 a.m.

The moon forms its perfect
vowel with a slight

edge of vibrato ; haunts
culs-de-sacs, hangs out

a satin laundry of blank
windows, roof-tops, the silent

sheets of roads.
My head’s scoured with light’s

disinfectant ; black
sacks of shadow bulge

into a fox – a shock
to see myself printed

on his watchfulness : I step
towards him, he sidles off,

turns, eyes me from the other
side of a bright

sword more clear-cut
than companionship.

From Learning to Row (1999)