at midnight

I find myself

in your sleeping


in your shallows

your tilt         your pucker

in the creases

and the talcum

of your skin


in your depths

your flail         your clasp


in your loaming

and the ripening

of your seedling limbs


Sitting under a blanket is the best thing you can do between October and April

My crochet blanket smells of toast

It isn’t that it’s not been washed

it just embodies comfort

and catches the dreams

that fall out of me

while I am dozing

Because the radiator is turned up

very hot

and I am like a lizard

that crochets

and has orange hair

Sometimes I stick my tongue out

to catch crumbs

while I wait for spring to reappear

Light always follows

There’s comfort in the sound
of the first bird
that calls from the dark
in the absence of cars
in the vacuum of space
that sits in the place somewhere
between 4 and 5am

There’s comfort in knowing that
yesterday will not be coming back
that those lessons learnt
last year
last month
or just the week
before are done with

Even though more will be lurking
like black cats bringing the lie
of magic or death

There’s comfort in the breath
from an unknown body in your ear
when the fear of intimacy
is far scarier than
a walk of shame
red cheeks the embers
from the night before

There’s comfort in forgetting
and then also of remembering
that we’re all
just making up a story
as we slide through life

and the ones about the other
serpents in our circle
are tiny slices

Or at best just drawn from memory
and only recognisable to
our own small ego

There’s comfort in
and comfort outside
the box and most of all
in letting go of boxes
that we place between ourselves and others

though it’s a harder path to take
it’s one I’d like to get to know

There’s comfort in the sound of
The first bird that calls from the dark
In the absence of cars
In the vacuum of space
That sits in the place somewhere
between 4 and 5am