Blocks.
The clock-face of midnight, assaulted
with piercing blocks
waits looking askance at my inky pen
as the witching hour stops
My mind can finally yield to sleep as
words dunked in rhyme
strung on short lines flicker at cautious
reviewing one more time.
Labour\'s oil now burnt out leaves me
still making verse
while shaping new notions so Calliope
I bid you have mercy.
Soon now and dawn will be brushing
my window to see
me catching some rest as todayness
stirs and tries to shake me.