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Julia Bird

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Sleeping Pattern

That window has shifted in the night.
And dark blue daylight borders the blind

but dawn must be on hold:
it took the clock an hour to flick from four

to four oh nine, its winking figures
marking time, time and time again.

Who moved the window? Who made this bed
whose bedclothes flatter like a dream?

The untucked sheets are a match for the dress
I wore for a short three hour stretch,

an evening dress whose cinched-in waist
and strapless top made even mirrors stare.

At this hour, no-one stirs. I’m not sure who
or, glimmer-headed, where, but know

I fell here like a feather would –
freely, no fear of the ground –

and touching down, am made secure:
a feather with a flightpath in its curve.

The homespun logic of the half-asleep
has tomorrow holding to this new-found shape

if, drifting off, I make my breathing pattern fit
the zip / slow unzipping of his.

 

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