A SENSE OF THE MORNING

I can’t stand the sound of slate being scraped. That’s what you are doing in my middle ear. This is how they make a spy confess. I came here to find out why you are ugly. The noon bells govern a side of the sky. They are finally tiling that roof up the hill. You are at the centre of your world. We are trying to circumsise your heart. But you cannot stop me from screaming. Yes, we have muffled your voice. You must, you must, you must. This leaves us with a sense of the morning.