Waking up, falling down

the tin-can morning
safe, but for a raw edge
behind the death-knell curtains
I put on my floor trousers
laying like a dog
dust the colour of the moon 
sieves down
I step raggedly through
motes follow, worshipping 

There’s a myth 
that strength and vulnerability 
aren’t mutually exclusive 

From here you can almost see
the willow by the bridge

But (too bright) today
I will just hallow the memory

The shadow of the bed’s
barred iron brow
stretches narrowly and wide 
to keep me

As if such creatures had enclosing wings

Crumpling by the escarpment
to the floor
I do not dispute