Ian McBryde: Fever Dreams

for Tom Waits

The darkness within darkness
comes and so the child in

all of us rises, after midnight,
slipperless, with no lights on.

Still asleep, he or she walks
barefoot over cold floors

headed towards warm rooms
that are never there. All

nightmares last well into the day
that follows. Attempting to

forget merely guarantees that
we will not forget. The blinds

are closed, the doors stay shut.
Shadows gather. Darkness

within darkness comes, and
so the child in all of us rises.

Alongside

There is no grip
stricter than history.

The bare bed, the light
turned out too soon.

Where the stairs end.
A tired nightnurse doing

half-hearted rounds
past mostly empty cots.

Unfillable stillnesses.
The absence of hands

on us. The vacant breast,
no name in the only book.