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Darren Bailey

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Metamorphosis

Kafka’s hand is on our morning script,
his breath the waking mist.

Last night I gave to sleep
two warm children in cuddles,
their soft skin and fine hair
an impossible image of perfection.

Last night I gave to sleep
a wife from beside the fire
to an open armed bed of desire,
and the calm evening of words.

This morning I stumble into ignorance,
into screeching complaints
about cornf lakes,
the wrong spoons,
I am too slow with the milk,
her tea has gone cold, it is too strong,
she wanted marmalade on the toast.

The beer glow has shriveled
to a tight ache behind the eyes
(or the pain of antennae breaking through the skull),
to confirm that the change is complete,
last night is gone,
we have mutated into the creatures
of an ugly morning,
facing the long climb through another day,
in the hope of rediscovery.


Page(s) 168

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