NOCTURNE 4

Night isn't a boulder to drag or

be dragged by. Night is night, cold,

withdrawn. It feeds me bones of primeval

loneliness. I recoil in bed, the fetal

my fragile defence. Mazed limbs scrounge

for warmth in a dark cave. Through tarred

tunnels, mysterious as touch always is,

skin heals skin.

Warm drops of fever rain on me.

Your hand measures my heartbeat.