The Hawk West Desk Window 7:40pm
I hear the distant surf
coming in like radio static
whose constant frequency
is broken only intermittently
by the heckling of a gull
or by the infrequent surge
of a vehicle on the road
acting as an incoming wave
The Tomato-coloured Couch 6:57pm
I Began This Day
Lying In Bed
& Now I Want
To Go Back
To Go To Sleep
With The Windows Open
Upon My Dream
The Tomato-coloured Couch 4:56pm
I am feeding
on the greenery of quiet
waiting for word
from a fleet of white
Silverados
telling Me
“Now’s The Time
Just Sit Tight
We’ll Be There Soon —
The Answer Will Be Soon — ”
The opening of My Cocoon
will be applauded
The Tomato-coloured Couch 1:17pm
I Am A Woman
Who Writes Poetry
To Slice Its Way
INTO LIFE
My Tools Are Silver Swords
Forged From My Brain
Brandished Publically
To Zap
The Unaware
With Words
Of Flame
Engulfing
The Globe
&
Beyond
To The Molten Makings
Of The Stars
The Hawk West Desk Window 9:45am
Back in My Bed
on the pretence of not enough sleep
I lie in repose
and wonder the look
on The Face
of The Nameless, Faceless Doctor
Who scraped out My Dear .4
and what of it
in My Reclining Pose
had I demanded My Pieces
be saved —
saved in a jar of formaldehyde?
Joanna Gilman Hyde 