sound cloud

i awake, half-sleeping,
my mind is nothing
but the collected night.
in this sound, what is there?
the high drone of the long haul,
settling vapours
from the sound cloud,
the blank pulse
of the woken screen’s,
dull luminescence,
wide fanned trails that spread
and the red noise of near-sleep,
the skin of air now bruised,
now broken, tremulous, departing.

i am full of departures,
of non-thoughts, of flights untaken,
lives unlived, loves unspent.
but the blooming, blossoming
of the night from behind
the far blind, whispering road
where the argon lights orange
glow unseen,
blow through my mind
with the sound of disappeared things:
coal trains chattering in sidings,
waiting to feed
the extinguished foundry fires,
the great bessemer cradle
still crashing, scalding the night
with plumes of carboniferous vapours,
though that was twenty years ago.

the fox tongue
in the bowl of rain water
beneath my window,
uttering gutteral warnings
to ferral shadows.
when my mind’s fires
dare to die down
the burden of identity,
these things i see,
these lights acoss my sky,
these waters seek to fill
the cast-off shell
this empty cave
with a measure of light
from midnight stars
galaxies away.


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