Sleepbolt

Fifty-six car horns past one
you spring like a hare. Sit up in bed.
Each of your breasts is Sagittarias'
longbow drawn taut, trained on something
beyond the window, deep in the lanes
in the eaves in the gutters of the city.
Whatever is there evades your mark,
goes under cover, lives - for tonight.
We exchange a few, jumbled expressions
through gummed lips. A hunter's song
for the unawake and the unasleep.
You won't remember in the morning.
You lie down again, and long ago,
I propped up my dictaphone - voice-activated -
to catch myself doing what you do,
but nothing.