News at strange hours
A sideways rain came at me fitted
with ice and the land shone
though it was afternoon and dark already.
I half expected to see
a red arctic moon emerge
to suit the strangeness
of being here again, a world away
from the last few months
and the heat which pushed its way in
everywhere and drenched us.
I heard news at strange hours,
you stole the time to send,
from your middle eastern room or rooftop
your crack den you called it
while the sirens tightened around you
and your friend melted her hash and
puked into a kitchen pot.
I talk in my sleep,
giving all our secrets away
and angels or crows pass dangerously
close through the slimy bleakness
at half past three every morning
twisting the plot of that dream
in which we are happy.