Outside

I am writing a poem for other people looking at the night,
with its picture box moon
scouting to get out
and into the lense of a star eyed camera
laminating mother's with their babies
saying, look at this love,
I've bought buttons for it.
Given it a strong name
to grow into something more than
a constellation of nerve endings.

It's in the huff of some dark bellied blue tack
stuck on the back of a picture
of a broken biro attached by string
to an alleyway brick,
with cats just out of sight
complaining about not being able to fly.

Some mist telling of tomorrow morning
is in on everything,
with its white walls
and light shafts and
bed like a beautiful childhood.