Occasionally, my sleeping baby girl
wakes alone within the darkened room,
lets out the saddest little drawn out wail
then falls asleep again. The summer moon
glints icily through our uneven blinds,
a helicopter judders through the gloom,
a dog across the road barks and then grinds
his canines against his new favourite stick.
There’s never a moment when you cannot find
something that’s crying out, but if you pick
a random living room, you’ll find instead
a roaring soul within a nest of brick,
a trembling lip, a hairline bead of sweat,
a knot within the stomach, a slight tick,
a mental rerun of a great regret
that will not be alchemised into talk,
nor find throat in primal, mammalian cries,
the expression rises within, then balks,
returns to its cramped cell behind the eyes.