Christopher Twose
In the dead of night
In the dark the radio flicks on
and barely noticeable I’ve tuned in
the station is switched to a channel
where sixty percent is just
the same few words repeated
again and again like a mantra.
It’s late, the middle of the night
I struggle from the hollow
of the temporary sofa, and shut down
the wave band, whilst the sea
washes away on a distant shore
and the grass is asleep
in the municipal park. The
words are negative - below
the surface of the river, and
they are the river. Thinking ticks
over like an unwound watch
and the voice is lost on the sea.
Page(s) 174
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