it is five in the morning and my maltese friend just woke me up
to let me know how much he appreciates my stanzas. i am cold.
the temperature dropped below zero, so i moved my mattress
closer to the radiator. the silence outside is suddenly bursting
with the shouting of the last marauders returning from their night out.
then, the upstairs neighbour begins a concert of creaking floors.
he heard them too. and although i know the chance for me to fall
back to sleep is gone, and that the young shelley is waiting for me,
i give myself another moment. this is my intimate one-on-one
with indeterminacy.
hidden pilcrow 