Sleep. Drawing curtains cross yesterdays,
like rain washing, colours running black
together on a half-remembered palette.
An amateur artist. Dips rush bristle brush,
mixing grey fogs with misty cloud crush,
blanking out past life on travelled canvas.
Was it only one day just gone he lived?
Alive and blinking, past and thinking,
begin again to build fresh character
in living dramas that show don’t tell
until old anxieties reassert in strength,
grey fears cast their shadows at length.
Suns dawn, rise and fall, arc and set,
sleep comes again, and he will forget:
The same stains,
the same rains,
flush the same black spiders,
down the same drains
backwards in gyres,
forwards in fires,
sleeping but forever tired,
nourish the beast
with life's feast.
Her fingers comb his dream-mind ceaseless,
both ghost garden there, forever peaceless,
Until cracked his face like cracked his heels
rubbed sore on leather sandal satchel, feels
her strap across his back in welts and weals,
awakes anew yet always old, it never heals.