Clockwork

Shadows come to power – night
settles in. An absence of light
defied by streetlamps and signage.

The window is closed, every sound
silenced by the soft-edged stench
of bleach, mopped floors and sterile sheets.

Then, in her sleep, she turns. He unlocks
his fingers from hers. Moves to pull
the curtains. He wants to press his face

against the glass, feel a cold shock
blaze across his cheek, watch his breath
mist and spread, some important part of him,

visible in front of the world. Outside,
there’s still the clockwork of taillights,
and above, travelling inexorably,

the hulking forms of clouds,
the blind weight of all that air.