No one is sleeping
what was the dream – which you hid beneath your blanket?
My obscure adolescence I should award you all
then maybe nothing, beneath a fist of fallen trinkets.
I could rhyme you days of systematic landscapes
in words of risk-free poetry –
But you know me well, for it is not, within my margins
that here I shall stay.
You might think; and who am I to decline your view
that in knowing me –
you will come to recognise yourself.
Who can say outside that mockingbird
who sits to mimic:
your disused dazzling laughter.