When you open your midnight door


fishing for sound             you hear


the scrape of a snail


the frame fills 	           with the head of a fox


                                      your eyes meet


Do you then plant a stethoscope


on the throat


                                of a wren


feel for the pulse of the glacier


                                     grinding its way to the future


       or track the thrum

of a lone motorbike rider under colliding stars


scanning lit streets


                 in the hope of sighting injured mammals

      deep in open-cut screens           drowning in tea


blinded by the glare


                   of the jewellery channel?