Flecks

sliding along
before vanishing
they keep
the lights on
through the night
I slip by
like a whisp
of toner dust
eluding dreams,
rasping inhalation,
hypnagogic flecks
disperse,
I lie waiting
for the 2 a.m. foghorn,
a cargo ship entering
Sydney harbour.
barring sleep
for night’s duration
television sound
or dvds
droning on
til early light
pinching through
the wooden slats
outlines the furniture.
on the top floor
a baby wakes
and wails for morning.
my scurf and scraps
and scattered nerves
begin their daily cycle,
two packed buses
to and through
the indifferent city
to work where
nothing makes sense
on the databases,
released by flexitime
from a short routine,
late afternoons
in the cinema’s womb
dozing through
jarhead
casanova
capote
syriana
transamerica

by Pam Brown

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