Poetry: Matins | clivejames.com
[Invisible line of text as temporary way to expand content column justified text width to hit margins on most viewports, simply for improved display stability in the interval between column creation and loading]


The stars are tin-foil bright
as long as the offices are dark; through
sheaves of the New York Times I try to read
my way back down. It's all as watchable
as someone who never says
how long they'll stay. On a Monday

like any other, too cold for snow,
without me, nothing's changed. In the gym
the hotel shares the pre-work work outs
will get going at five. Outside the library;
each head on a monolith paw,
the Aslan lions sleep on:

the fountains frozen, the park
pale with frost, my plane a trail of latte cloud to go …
Off their running machines, waking up,
they'll be walking to work -
the big-eyed goddess of Starbucks cups
the only face tilted up at the sky.