There is a space between things - in the shadows between traffic lights and windows, the darkness on the other side of the beach huts and that silent sea holding serpents and tides.
A road that slips beyond town, lit by double headed lamps, white bulbs, cold light, cuts through a field or wasteground - hard to tell at night.
I've lost the language - I've written this line years ago - an old notebook repeats its own stars - a constellation turned up from old afternoons and
rain against the windows. I did not worship sleep then as I do now. There are temples in that turn of things whose prayers are stained with gods left to the waves on pebbled shores.
