The Brodie Press
The Sun at Midnight
And the sun streams through at midnight,
they curl up against it; the curtains are sheer.
Everywhere, the curtains are sheer. Sleep
a question. Bodies curbed. How they stumble
as finally, dreams penetrate day.

The wooden triangles of houses on the wharf shine;
rain cases the streets in their waking stroll.
Lightweight feet. Eyes are hot coals. Raising their heads
it is hard to see, except for the plainness of things…
oily cobbles, a shop of umbrellas.

Shellfish stalls line the quay. Cups of boiled prawns.
Hunks of grey tissue on ice hills. A dead eye,
a gaping mouth. Mouth like a cave in the otherwise light.
Light as heavy water. Light twisting between
the stallholders. The relief of a corrugated roof.

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