6 of 30

You start out of your sleep, shouting
grab the blanket and stand in the dark with it
so i leave, and you climb back in the bed
treacherous horse on a staircase

I cannot shower the villain off me,
the pantomime moustache you have painted me with
the paper horns our son is glueing to my head

A flapping of terrible wings
against the brittle dark
a grey light insinuates against the curtains

so i go down into the dark house,
the child's faint complaint in her sleep
each in your bed, a silent film

It is not death. Spring is coming