Dream holes and desire paths –
those spire views and bared routes –
those modern urban lay lines –
guiding light and human shifts –

letting sound and choice drift
until the unbuilt gets put down
and our tracks are lost to tarmac –
when our reveries are blocked up –

once the empty churches are sold
and the open parks are enclosed
by signs halting walking on grass –
we will lose the ways we made

Zero Four Thirty

For a man who has done his natural duty,
death is as natural as sleep.

Here we meet again –
you are no longer a friend –
you the jolt – the waking itch –
the drug’s portend

This unnatural discontent –
which sleep is for me –
it is a sickly thing

It is as if rest itself
is my disease –

It is as if my register
of a simple expectation –
of a longed-for sopor –
no longer allows its admit

Yet I will drift in daytime’s
impolite light
with eyelids weighted
by the night –
just enough
to stop me seeing things

This puzzle of so many pieces
which darkness has become
You my new foe –
my agonist – my bedlam