I wondered what it was like, your first breath, demanding light from dark? Like an egg yolk, slid on a plate, dawn-slapped set in ways, left nothing in your wake. The tick of a kitchen clock, you are always there somehow, hiding or revealing. How do I know who is right, you or the moon? At noon, I tell you I am tired, you tell me to drop and run, never settle for anything other than yourself. A window stands between us, tapped heavy with handprints, all knuckle and bone, feverish, up and down, an amplified hysteria of their own. It is our child’s palms planted in washable paint, oh the noise of it all. I watch you rise, teeth grit to grind, banging around like Balor. I stay quiet. It’s better this way I reckon, the plight of your flight-long run. My double vision is the genesis of a sunken day. You say I must go and ignite like yellow butter spread ablaze, on veiny clotty clouds, that wet the bed in its own blinded light! Oh off with these words which you speak! Off with the way you fire-ball move, laid bare, a black hole to soothe! Your arsenal of charged dreams charge me into tarbh buile! But down here I will know no war. Why won’t you go and lay electric, on this fine-pink line, above windmills that cartwheel deformed? This disappearing act of yours, sweet girl, settle down, quieten below. Who shall rise again at tomorrow’s turn, hot like heartburn?