again, is it the hour before dawn or after dusk? My night pattern’s shot, I lie gazing at the billows of the ceiling, twitch to every lighthouse sweep of a passing taxi, the howl of a ring road bike bandit. Where is the kiss of sleep, out there in the wind, rushing carefree over the Ridgeway hump or black water. She’s forgotten me in my room at the top of the house, she won’t visit again until the winter press sets in and the iron cold snaps at the glass.
