Surely, there is something better than this.
There is night,
just as unpredictable,
but there is solitude,
even in the teeming black.
I take a lover with nipples the colour of raisins;
a country blooms into a district from a town
in the wake of dreams from a somnambulant child;
I am long and blue, birthing a human that frightens me into silence;
Things are true and exactly as they seem, or they are swift,
and they run with thieves.
Thoughts become thoughts become thoughts;
there is no loss when they shapeshift, not really,
when everything is circular.
People are physical events that can be remembered;
something in the retelling stays the same
and is the pinprick that wakes you
when they become other,
leaving themselves behind to be swept from corner to corner.