3am
a wooden door slams shut in my brain
a man perishes in a space the size of his grave from malnutrition eighty years ago
(I travel on my mother’s electric waves that held their spoken words’ shape)
I am sorry that the thud left a hole in your dream like a lost stitch in a schoolgirl’s needlework
the drumming of car tyres forms a mirror-like sound on the asphalt road
a beam of light casts a languorous glance over our bodies
for six seconds
(the length of a yawn)
I catch the warm updraft, rising from your breathing
Britta Giersche is German. She lives in London and is writing her first book of poetry.