© Christopher Raine


White Kitten


an electric fan 
patters a chopped breeze 
a white river of sound 
drowning and numb
‘Some people like it.’
she says
‘Others do not.’
a silent retort echoes
‘It’s just noise
no matter what
colour you call it.”
annoyance flutters
at the edge of the mind
a pale moth in moonlight
he arranges his pillow
again and again
a fat man kneading dough
he sighs dropping his head
a stone weight
held on a candy string
of popping ligaments
and tenuous tendons
his wife sleeps there,
beside him
her inky hair spilled
across the pillow
like an erotic dream
it comes easily to her;
the sleep
she snores softly
it’s almost a comfort to hear
but after a while
it’s just noise