The Graveyard Shift 

Four in the morning,

stillness wakes me,

an absence of rhythm.

I slide my hands across your ribs –

                        One - Two

I count your breaths,

like the rings grained in ancient trees.

Five – six - slow, so slow.

Then a deep shudder of air hunger.

You mutter dream words -

Zaboca, Silk fig.

We search other countries

in the speckled dark of an urban night.

My hands on your belly

test for the creep of hypothermia.

Men die in their sleep, believe it.

                        All fires out,

                        Cold clinker.

My fingers curl round your penis,

the cool slipping comfort of flesh.

I count your vital signs,

the bones and sinews of love.

I’m working the Graveyard Shift

and I’m sick of all these ghosts,

picking at our yellow blanket

with their cold paws.

Graveyard Shift:  midnight until morning