Guard Duty

1 May 2017

This side of my eyelids is a dark that lacks
density, matt patches of light tempering
the spread of shadow, wrinkles of glass-shatter

frozen just short of a drop, a millimetre
of airy perspective with a hint of
comic-book stars that follow a knock-out punch

or the thirty-six candles of the French
translation from the graphic, a black and white
negative of the New Year pyrotechnics,

son et lumière, fridge-hum and a faint spill
of streetlight. Bonne Année indeed, bonnier
than the last one or the one before, if I lived

my life backwards or were legally blind
to all the evidence. I wait for sleep to shut
the world off like a falconer’s hood.

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