Smoking in the early early morning.
I sit here dry-mouthed
to the world, it doesnt need me.
The pigeon still
clatters into the air.
Noises still cloak
without me watching them.
I turn and the garden is alight
with honey. Golden grass, toast
on the washing line
& the syrupy haze coats my eyelids.
My heart is rocking me
against the windowsill
& I can see the builders in a reflection of glass
walking on some far off plain.