A window frames stars. He is asleep,
Stirs because I opened the curtains.
The moon travelled across the star flecked dark

Out of sight almost an hour ago.
I want to sketch time into some new shape
And hold it in my hands.

Our house, anchored to the present – night
Unfolds towards dawn – scrawled letters in a flock
Migrate from between finger and thumb

To the page, eye to mind – I watch
The hour’s hand as it smears my face with shadow.
The lake smokes, an owl works strips

Of flesh from a claw-full of bone and fur.
The moment’s a sentence, condensed into our life.
A journal of twisted but hopeful thought.

Manuscript’s wings brush against
A turning hand. A frog on the back step sings, clock,
What O’clock. Calligraphic knots,

Chafed fingers, ink under fingernails.
Sight’s locked in the mind’s cupboard, burning.

Hennig Brand’s phosphorus – cold fire
In a bottle – shake ’till time breaks on a surface.
Midnight, cotton flowers bloom in the rag-moth’s head.