over fallen dawn curtains droop closed, and morning’s sheen seeps silently inward, pitching lambent blues across shelf and armchair alike, a distant clamour laving the sweatcreased sheets of nightfall whilst sight ambles from floor to ceiling, to where concentration lolls in folds of regret, whirling with anxiety to drift, degraded and ruminant, as I want him and want want and yet do not, not wanting him at all, wanting dislocation, in a deep, unbridged vastness where faults subside, where his jabbering awkwardness and rubicund grin, his pits and member, would ebb, inexorably, to nought, their phantoms expunged in spectation, betrothed to hope’s spectre, hungry for someone, for something, for the mysterious, unexpected event that might appear but that does not, permitting light’s reach to sharpen and dull eventlessly as the bedbound moment elapses, as I sigh, plaintively, at a sterile world, familiar and smaller, to be yet smaller soon