I clocked in
and the cogs began to turn.
A slippery fish, I was slid
along a grey conveyer belt:
to a throng
of wet and glittering forms.
skinned me of my chlorine uniform;
inspected by hungry, eel-like tongues.
until each shift is done.
the coffee-shop, dead on midday,–
in the agenda
of commerce and trade.
bright shocks of toothsome sun
turn, in time,
to downy clocks, by breaths of air unspun
daylight is a foreign currency.
exiled to an isle of cotton-silk,
you spend it under unfamiliar sheets.
blankets billow round you like a womb
(rock you to a soft, synthetic swoon).
tidal, you rise,–
reborn beneath the moon.
we are only at our best in retrospect