WALKING AT 45 DEGREES:
At 4:30am this morning, ragged from an excesses of technicolor
dreams, I ran, growling, into the wind, rescuing the flags of Essex,
straining to escape pegs & lines, fly free across sodden fields of
mud to impale themselves on the amputated limbs of hawthorn hedges.
Heads buried deep beneath duvets we groan, surf the rim of sleep,
agitated divers hunt elusive dark as windows fling themselves wide,
welcoming the storm’s forced entry, grinning, hissing, spitting
broken grooves like shattered teeth at our woeful attempts to sleep.