It is so early
The freshly dead still sigh in their sleep not realising
they have gone
Children with their heads soft and their bones green
swell into a new day, and cry
for the small movements of leaves for the millipede or for nothing,
just because crying is there
and the hour needs to be tested
Ink still glitters
and glaciers are born like tears
Simone hasn’t yet seen
the aquarium with the angel fish
and Saturn has no rings
Silence reigns in the frosty corridors of my nerves,
it’s so cold the air untouched and I shiver I’m still
wondering how all this light reached in
Satan is playing blind man’s buff with the others
and laughing
The milkman puts down a pint of semi-skinned on the step
and the bottle glints like a kind of key

It is so early
Maybe 2.30 in the morning I get in
throw my keys on the table and put on Sandanista
So early
the bullet still hangs at the lips of the barrel
and no one yet is the victim no one a murderer
The colours of Macao and the songs of Hong Kong’s cicadas
are creased in a map
The chalk is paused over the board
among toughs and sleepyheads I dream of Deborah
and don’t yet have to turn my mind
to the appearance of the fatal signs
of elementary trigonometry
And you have not caught the train
sipped from your doll’s cup of espresso
laughed at the mirror
forgotten your phone
How many pearls will form
or thistledowns be tethered
down in the rain
before you arrive?
How many curious eyes
turn to the stars
and drift, struggling for purchase?
Such a gulf of impossible things
and sparks moving upwards in a draught
form ephemeral galaxies
Thoughts’ glitterdust
coruscates with bridges and shadows
castles and keeps
pillows and woods and schemes
a basket of vanishing
The seed swells but doesn’t split open
The sun rises and reserves
its tenderest shadows for those who can’t
sleep

When I look at you
there is no lateness yet
no shape or purpose of regret to consider
It is so early
in this thing it is not yet even
aware it is alive
The fire means nothing to the lazy gunpowder
The moon seems to take an age to rise
The willow trees sway so slowly in the wind
I notice them but don’t know why
except you are beautiful
so I cannot look away from the willows
swaying in the wind, these things
have become magnetised to each other
In Tokyo, the vending machine
rolls out a coffee
In Africa, the monkeys sift through the bones
their hazel gazes
edge towards questions
Why are all the buds
almost sore with their newness?
When will they grow old?
In this moment
nothing has been forgotten,
there is no need even for the smallest thing
to be remembered
From the hawthorn trees
white petals fall towards their shadows
and Shakespeare hears the first word which ever
turns him on
I look at your mouth as you speak and yet
it is so early
I don’t even notice
as I glance into your eyes
everything has become filled with dawn

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