The ceiling holds me in a dry awake.
I love theologising sleep,
the blue tack mark non interruption
where no phone rings
and no one speaks.
Snug in my mountain sleeping bag
I hold the torch up,
illuminate Oliver asleep face down on the rush matting.
I swig flat coke, let the sugar sink in.
I am a danger to the dark
on a tightrope as my wide arm sweep
casts in on the Joan Armatrading record
propped up on the dado rail.
When it falls,
I know its because I willed it.
