By Kyra Lambert
In the little hours
A crow makes himself known,
The moon slides into the west,
And we writhe in crisp linens
Rough on elbows and heels
I pull myself awake
And rub the hours of rest from my eyes
The grey morning
Colours my apartment,
The rooftops are veiled in fog,
And the chimneys are obscured by a familiar mist
I’m here once more,
Standing at the edge,
At the crest of autumn,
Where the earth reclines
Into the death of the sun
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