the thinner spectre of the two,
serene and pale and half in shadow,
from the creases of the curtain,
floats a plaintive lullaby
into the swollen greenwich evening.
her song for sleepless children.
‘a painted fort for poorly cowboys,
a teepee for the squaw and chieftain.
a mountain range of wooden blocks
to ride, with reins between their teeth
and hooves that echo in the canyon.’
but, in the ether strewn with crayoned
cut-out stars and pockmarked moon
(before the landing) –
a blinking eye was at the keyhole.
in anticipation, i suppose.