Sleep. I might find myself
Awake beneath the echo tree,
Cradled in the cavity. Alive to
Familiar ghosts and feet that
Tread in the deep sub-terrain
Of my own heavy steps.
On towards houses, I hold them
In my hands and rattle brown
Bricks as loose change. These
Sorry pilgrims cluster and
Haunt the long walk home,
Tucked like teeth.
I trace an outline along
These floating points – carry
An echo across a silver thread.
There are fig trees and factories 