by Christian Ward
Influenced by Ruth Stone
You wake at five AM. I know you do.
The first words are buried in a catacomb
of breath and you wander about inside,
trying to find meaning to this daily ritual.
Shutting out the rhythm of passing cars,
streaks of moonlight on the pavement
and the mysterious phenomenon of rain
helps you find their file, light drawing
itself away from your body when you
say the first word, the way a ship
moves away from an unknown bay;
afraid of reefs and sharp edges.
Light girdles the house
facing north. Parting its veil,
morning is the husband.
The nipple of chimney;
leaded windows like lashes;
a perfume of furniture polish.
Light slips through the keyhole
and lies upon the body,
and it stirs and remembers.
The Undiscovered Universe
White flowers occupy
the shirtsleeve of a tire.
Aluminium cans conduct
a symphony of electricity
in a dumpster, spilling
down to an unwanted
mattress and its exposed
mouth of bedsprings.
Acid gargles in a rusting
car battery. It's that month
when we look into our
pockets and see hope,
like a cloud of starlings
chasing scattering grain,
knowing where it will fall.
Christian Ward is a 27 year old London based student & writer, currently finishing the third year of a degree in Creative Writing and English Literature at Roehampton University, London. His work can be currently seen in Why Vandalism?, The Fairfield Review and is fortcoming in Decanto, The Warwick Review and Remark. His fourth chapbook, Slippage, will be released next Spring.