Cap lamps

There are guttering cap lamps
bound up in roots,
babies in tea towels
warm as eggs in brown paper
packed in next to teapots with tanine
dribbled dup two wet cheeks.

There are hairline cracks in mud sheets,
facts that tree,
like history scribbled across streets,
but are after the fuse box breaks,
just hammocks, we hug in before sleep.

The flowerbeds hum along all night
about how they are polka struck with grass blades
which slip between fingers and lips
and woot out across to wordless frights.

The mud wet with effort, settles
and says to light as it threads white through the root tops,
that it might be enough to love the sound
circular and battling as a bat,
the grave mouth open as a welt
catching and coughing at air
which waits steady and still as a lump cup.