0.06 am

the night shrugs off what silence it had procured minutes ago;

the street edge shifts; it's noises are relevant ice to sleep:

hollow woody sighs beneath tyres thrown back by tenements;
globules of wax and oil no longer resist their fall and

make their way from flat roof to ear,

roads fizzing, cool, wet;
a delivery boy creaks homeward on a moped the size of a matchbox;

there is nothing awkward about his age;

only sleep can deter his winning streak, placate his tough losses.
meantime, all is as was -

sharp sounds and brief liquid suggestions - faintly macabre;

hanging in the air; as jet: impenetrable, dark

Battersea 20/10/07