Dear under-neighbours, I live on the top floor

When you are asleep
I am above you, awake,
wishing this whole waffle-stack
block would just vanish
and leave us, for a moment,
hung above each other,
at intervals, unbedded,
in our chosen positions:
dessert spoons and ladles,
those crime scene outlines,
those boulders, runners, turnstiles,
those grave-ready and flat
on their backs, then all of us
falling, just like a dream,
but my good God,
this time it’s real.