By Justin Quinn

You sleep there underneath

four squares of blue, your clay

dilating as you breathe,

oblivious to the day.

Which is birdsong, the slight

sea-noise of cars below,

serrated insect flight,

a chainsaw on the go

within a wooded ghyll,

working its way through

part of our world. These fill

the azure over you.

In it are sheens that pass,

the fleetest silverings

of sylph and self in glass,

as well as shadowings

suggesting foreign steppes

through walls of brick and ply,

or just weird tiny depths

in details of the sky.

It’s as if you’re lying under

the surface of the water,

as pictures join and sunder

of mother, wife and daughter.

When you wake up I see

the fathoms that you swam,

and your eyes ask of me

who on earth I am.

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